The Price We Pay for Love
by OyHumbug
Summary: Buffy's sick, the demon world is speaking gibberish to the slayer, and she's having strange, recurring dreams that revolve around a visit to a L.A. that lasted no more than a couple of minutes... right? Something big has changed in Sunnydale.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Price We Pay for Love  
**Rating**: R  
**Disclaimer**: I own neither the characters featured in this story nor the show from which their inspiration was derived. Unfortunately.  
**Summary**: Buffy's sick, the demon world is speaking gibberish to the slayer, and, most baffling of all, she's having strange, recurring dreams that revolve around a visit to a certain L.A. vampire that lasted no more than a couple of minutes... right? Something has changed in Sunnydale, and it has everything to do with Buffy... and Angel.  
**A/N**: First, the title of this story came from a quote by Queen Elizabeth II in which she said, "grief is the price we pay for love." Secondly, each chapter title for this story is the title of a song. Most of them will be songs that I myself listen to and enjoy. However, for example, there might be one or two – like with this first chapter – which are not my personal taste but reflect the actual storyline. With that said, the whole song might not represent the chapter, but perhaps the mood fit with the post's mood, or there was a line or two of the lyrics which matched the tone of the plot at that point. Because of the song title chapter titles, there will be a thread where all the songs are listed, including youtube videos featuring the songs if you would like to listen to them. On one final note, this story is already finished. I'll just be spreading out the chapters when I actually have time to post. Thanks and enjoy!

~Charlynn~

**The Price We Pay for Love**

**Chapter One: Two of Hearts**

Buffy wasn't sure how she felt about Christmas. Hell, for that matter, she wasn't sure how she felt about holidays in general, but, considering the fact that her conscience swore while thinking about the rather sacred religious day, she pretty much knew that, whatever her feelings were, they weren't good and pious. However, she didn't feel guilty about her wicked ways. If nothing else, due to her somewhat unorthodox lifestyle, she felt as though she deserved to be cut some slack when it came to her less than stellar level of festiveness. Besides, could anybody in their right mind blame her for being a little jaded?

Halloween, when a slayer, was a joke. That had already been proven. The one day out of the year when she was supposed to be granted a slight reprieve, and that had gone bust… just like with all her other holiday plans. All the romantic holidays, Buffy felt, were designed to mock her. St. Patrick's Day, considering he was the patron saint of Ireland, was ruined thanks to He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Mentioned, and she couldn't even enjoying stuffing herself with an exorbitant amount of food anymore at Thanksgiving because of the memories she gained just a month prior thanks to the same souled vampire. And then there was her birthday… which, unfortunately, was quickly approaching, but the slayer had to push those thoughts, those recollections, aside if she wanted to get through the next few days. While her birthday wasn't for another month, Christmas was a part of the here and now, and it had its own share of ghosts that could haunt her quite adequately.

Yay for her.

However, Buffy refused to wallow. It wouldn't do her any good, and she wasn't that girl anymore. He had left, she had moved on, and she wasn't about to let either him or her memories ruin the night she had planned. Besides, there were still a few days left before the anniversary of their magic snow, and she was determined to find something to celebrate that year, if not for herself than, at least, for her friends.

So, that was why she had cancelled patrolling for the night. While she had no doubt that Giles would go off skulking about town with a crossbow in her stead – the man truly did not comprehend even the idea of a night off, she, at least for twenty-four hours, was retiring her stakes and locking away her holy water. Instead of her utilitarian leather jacket, tank, pants, and moderately heeled boots, the eighteen year old was wearing a bright green, scooped neck sweater and loose, worn jeans. She even had slippers on her feet, and, for the first time in years, there was no cross around her neck. When she looked in the mirror, she looked like a normal college freshman, one who was home for break and prepared to jumpstart her holiday festivities, but she felt like a fake. Yet, as long as she fooled her mom, and Willow, and Xander, the ruse was totally worth it.

After one last cursory glance in the mirror to make sure that everything was in its proper place, the slayer took a deep breath, bracing herself for the evening to come. After all, it had been her idea – a way for her to give something back to her two best friends and her mother for all that they sacrificed for her and her invasive, oftentimes unwanted destiny. For Joyce, it was just a simple night with her daughter, something akin to what they had shared before Buffy had been called. For Xander, it was a way to escape his unfeeling family, even if only for just one night. And, for Willow, Buffy was trying to help her best friend forget, if only for a moment, the pain she was in due to Oz leaving. If nothing else, she herself could understand the devastating side effects a girl went through when the man she was in love with chose to leave her, and, right or wrong in her attempts, the redhead had tried everything she could think of to cheer Buffy up after graduation. The least she could do was return the favor.

And that's exactly what she planned on doing. If everything went according to her ideas, Willow would be so busy that she wouldn't have time to think about her wandering werewolf, and, for that matter, she'd be so busy distracting her best friend that she wouldn't think about her own MIA ex-significant other. There was a tree to decorate, but, first they had to get it in its stand, and, knowing her perfectionist of a mother, that would take, at least, an hour. With that thought in mind, Buffy reminded herself to hide the level. Plus, there were cookies to bake, presents to wrap, and Christmas holiday classics, especially Charlie Brown for Willow and Xander, to watch.

It was so sweet that she felt like she was choking on a jelly donut overload.

Straitening her shoulders, the blonde practically marched down the stairs to where she could hear her mom and friends waiting for her in the living room. If she wasn't so focused upon the tasks before her, she would have realized that her behavior mirrored that of a woman who was on her way to face a firing squad, but Buffy was too distracted. Softly, she could already hear the television on in the background. It was set to an all music holiday station, and, of course, _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_ was playing, its notes and lyrics as crisp as the pain that lanced through the eighteen year old at even the slightest reference to her former lover.

She was so distracted by the time she reached the first level of her house that she just made her way to the couch where her two best friends were curled up underneath blankets, moving entirely on autopilot. It wasn't until she felt the sticky, disgusting spray of an uncontrollable sneeze hitting the bare skin of her neck and left cheek that she realized something wasn't right with the picture before her, but, by that time, she was too grossed out to even care.

"Now, that's what I call some authentic season's greetings," the owner of the sneeze quipped, grinning despite his obvious physical discomfort. Continuing on, Xander mock sang, "on the first day of Christmas, my best friend gave to me: a quickly spreading viral disease."

Her mom chastised Xander, but there was little effort behind her reprimand, and her lack of enthusiasm had nothing to do with the cold she was suffering from and everything to do with her own poorly disguised amusement, and Willow hit her childhood friend with one of the spare pillows that was piled up between the two teens on the couch. However, Buffy did not join in with their antics. Disbelievingly, she cried out, "you cannot be sick! That's just… against the laws of … of nature or something. I mean, who gets sick on Christmas?"

"I had the chicken pox over Christmas break once," Willow shared, "but it lasted eight days, so it seemed appropriate to me at the time. I had pulled Cordelia's hair at recess a few weeks before, so I thought it was my Hanukkah punishment for being bad." Finishing her story, the redhead just shrugged.

"If I had been in charge, I would have rewarded you with sixteen days of presents instead."

"Yes, but my parents never dated Cordelia, Xander, unlike you. Hey," she brightened up drastically. "There's our first holiday miracle!"

But Buffy plowed on, ignoring her teasing statement and trying to block out any more discussion of their old high school… whatever Cordelia had been to them. Because she was in L.A., and because she was working for He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Mentioned, Cordelia was a forbidden topic for the slayer as well. Not that her friends knew that, though, for the blonde didn't want them to realize just how much she was still affected by the not-so-distant past. Instead, she focused on objecting. "But what about the tree?" Turning to practically plead with her mother, the slayer pressed, "it's your favorite part of Christmas, Mom."

"Yes, it is, and it'll get decorated, I promise. Just not tonight, Buffy. I can't."

Giving up on that avenue of argument, the eighteen year old next moved her complaints to her roommate. "What about Snoopy, Willow, and wrapping presents? You said that you are practically an artist with scotch tape."

Gripping her already pale head as if to steady it, the fledging Wiccan whimpered, "I don't think I can take dancing and singing right now, let alone bright paper. It'd be too much; it would push me over the edge, make my stomach even queasier, and I think we can all agree that we don't want to see what Willow had for lunch."

"Where'd you eat," Xander asked, as if her choice of restaurant would actually play a role in his decision.

"Not the point," the redhead glared.

And Willow never glared, so Buffy knew her friend really didn't feel well. Turning to her last but what she felt was her best hope, the slayer beseeched, "what about those cookies, though, Xand?" If nothing else, her friend's capacity to eat, especially junk food, was legendary. Even though the actual cookies were already made and from a box, no less, everyone knew that, when it came to Xander, he would eat anything – even cardboard – if it had enough frosting and sprinkles on it. "I got every color of frosting you could imagine and tons of different kinds of candy to decorate the cutouts with. You're not going to bail on me, too, are you?"

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he apologized weakly, looking probably just as wretched as he felt, "but I'm not hungry." Pausing momentarily as if his previous statement shocked him just as much as it shocked the three women in the room, the brunette considered what he had just said before emphasizing, "yeah, not even a little bit." To punctuate his words, he sneezed all over the blonde slayer once again."

"Ugh, you have to quit doing that."

"Ah, come on, Buffy," Willow grinned, and then coughed, and then frowned wretchedly. "Don't you want to join us? You know, misery loves company. Besides, living here, you'll probably get sick anyway."

"Yeah, thanks for the appealing offer, but I think I'm going to have to pass." Looking pointedly at her two best friends, the eighteen year old said, "don't we remember what happened the last time I got sick."

"Oh yeah," the redhead recalled belatedly. "Killing and coughing don't exactly mix too well."

"Like vamps and sunlight," Xander quipped.

"And, on that note," the slayer turned to retrace her steps and head back towards the stairs. "I think I'll go change and head out for a quick…," but, after Xander sneezed again, she amended, "or... make that a really, really long patrol. And maybe I'll drop by Giles' and see if he wouldn't mind a houseguest for a few days, at least until the three of you stop resembling members of the living dead again. Besides, he's British, so he likes tea, and cakes go with tea, and cookies are cousins with cakes, so maybe I'll be able to talk him into making cookies with me instead."

"And he can tell you tales of when he was a little British boy growing up," the only male in their small group quipped. "How much do you want to bet that Ripper got coal in his stocking? Eh, Joyce," he finished, wiggling his eyebrows in Buffy's mother's direction. But Joyce didn't answer; she just turned bright red to match her holiday inspired pajama and robe set, Willow made fake gagging noises, and Buffy ignored her friend.

After making her way into her bedroom, she changed quickly, throwing on an outfit that was more befitting of someone who was The Chosen One. Feeling like she belonged in her own skin again, Buffy could also breathe easier. While she was disappointed that her friends and mother were sick, if she was honest with herself, she was also relieved that she had gotten out of the night she herself had planned to spend with them. Not that she would ever tell them that, though. Her relief was only compounded when she skipped down the stairs and heard the haunting notes of _Angels We Have Heard on High_ floating from the TV, and, in that moment, her feelings towards all holidays stopped wavering; she knew exactly how she felt, especially about Christmas.

She hated it.

!

She was on her seventh cemetery of the night and had yet to vanquish a single vamp, the uncharitable, selfish lot! Didn't they realize that she was in the middle of a mini-crisis, that she needed the distraction of a good fight, that the only thing that could possibly derail her from her current train ride of self-pity was the dusting of several of her undead dead opponents? Leave it to a vampire, though, to deprive the slayer of a little distraction and emotional catharsis.

It wasn't until she felt the presence of her enemy sneak up behind her that she realized that her adversaries were not hiding from her that evening, but, rather, she had just been too obliviously self-involved to notice their presence before that particular blood sucker decided to confront her head on, and, if the vamp was that cheeky, the chances were that he or she wasn't a newbie. Oddly enough, she was relieved by that realization, for she did not relish an easy fight. She wanted to work for her kill, she wanted to sweat away her discomfort and unease, and she wanted to unleash the plethora of emotions drowning her from the inside, and the vampire behind her seemed like just as good of a target as anything else.

Turning around to face her challenger, Buffy scowled. "But, yet, you still can't dress," she accused, leveling a displeased glance at the blood sucker's attire. Seeing the vampire's acid washed, straight legged jeans, White Snake t-shirt, and feathered hair, the eighteen year old sincerely wished that the 80's would never come back into style.

"Slayer," she was greeted unnecessarily. Why her rivals always had to announce her destiny when they met her, she would never know. Talk about redundant! If she was just another meal, they wouldn't pause long enough to even contemplate her identity.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the college freshman mocked. "I think I know who I am by now, but thanks for the tip anyway. And you," she posed, scratching her chin in simulated curiosity, "let me guess, are what: my worst enemy, the thing that's finally going to manage to get rid of me for good, yada, yada, yada. You know, if it's alright with you, I think I'd like to start fighting now. All this small talk is really exhausting."

But the vampire didn't attack. In fact, it stayed static, simply watching the blonde as though puzzled by her, and Buffy waited to see what her foe would do next. It wasn't that she was afraid of the random vamp, but she was slightly caught off guard by its reticence to engage her in combat. Usually, blood suckers fought first and died second, leaving no time for thought, but this was different, and that, she had to admit, even if just to herself, unnerved her.

Finally, the vampire whispered incredulously, "two hearts that beat as one."

And that was all the incentive Buffy needed to strike. As she swung a vicious right hook towards the vamp's big haired head, she asked, "what, was there some 80's pop marathon on VH1 tonight or something? Seriously, your kind really needs to get a life." Following her first hit with an uppercut to the jaw, she added, "I mean, really, _Stacey Q_? That's the best you could come up with?" Kneeing the blood sucker and making it collapse at her feet, Buffy wasted no time plunging her stake into its undead heart. As her opponent disintegrated into dust, she added one last parting shot. "Well, at least you lasted longer than Stacey Q's career."

With that, she wiped off the vampire residue on her coat and continued on her patrol, her adversary's words already forgotten. Although she wasn't anywhere near being content, she felt better than she had earlier when she had left home. By the end of the night and after several more dustings, Buffy had hope that she would be able to head back to Giles' apartment with a clearer head. But then she nearly tripped over her own two feet, stumbled slightly, and had to hold onto a conveniently large gravestone to prevent herself from falling. Pushing away from the granite memorial, she straightened out, only to realize that she felt slightly dizzy and nauseous.

"Great," the slayer complained, gritting her teeth in frustration and annoyance. "Just peachy-freaking-keen. Thanks, Xander," she continued to talk out loud to herself, the empty graveyard surrounding her completely silent except for the slight echo of her own voice and words. "You certainly know how to brighten a girl's holiday spirit."

Turning back around, she started on what was sure to be a long walk home now that she wasn't feeling well. So much for staying with Giles, for tea and sugar cookies, and stories of her watcher as a naughty, coal receiving little British boy. She was off to the sick house, off to join her mother and her two best friends in their Christmas (and Hanukkah) suffering. Somehow, though, despite being chilled, dizzy, and sick to her stomach, the current year still managed to beat the year before. But that was no great accomplishment. Anything would be better than He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Mentioned trying to commit suicide, and, if there was something worse out there, she really did not want to know what it was. Surely, she, at least, deserved that consideration… if nothing else.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Italicized portions are flashbacks. Thanks._

_~Charlynn~ _

**Chapter Two: Wake Up  
**

_A Year and a Half Later…_

Fate had such a perverse sense of humor.

First, when she was fifteen, it had picked her as the chosen one – spoiled, selfish, obtuse Buffy Summers, and thrust her into a world she both didn't understand and didn't want to be a part of. She had liked her naïveté. In fact, she had blossomed underneath it, but that innocence had been completely ripped away by a single conversation. Now, countless battles later, she was reminded of destiny's depravedness as she walked the halls of her workplace.

Maybe her funny bone was on backwards, or maybe it had just been injured one too many times.

The latter option she could understand. If nothing else, the slayer was well aware of how the body could only take so much abuse. Though, physically, she always healed, mentally, she wasn't so sure. There was only so many times a woman could be beat down, bloodied and degraded, whether literally or figurative, past the point of recognition. Eventually, everyone, even the chosen one, had a breaking point. However, she couldn't give in yet. The cell phone clutched desperately in her sweaty, left palm was proof enough of that.

Needing a change in scenery, she decided to take the stairs to the second level. It had been more than an hour since she did a quick sweep of the school's upper floor, and, though one would think that any trespasser would need to enter the building by way of one of the many locked entrances, it was Sunnydale high, and they were located on top of the Hellmouth… literally speaking, seeing as how the school board had voted to rebuild the high school directly on top of the previous structure's charred out remains. At least, one could always count on the town's foolishness and gullibility, even without a demon mayor encouraging their clueless innocence on.

However, their inability to learn from their mistakes was the reason why she had a job… and a pretty good one at that. The hours sucked, the duties were monotonous, and the fact that she was back working in the high school was quite the joke, especially considering the fact that she spent more time there as an adult than she ever had as an actual student, but, at least, she didn't have to wear a uniform. She had nipped that little situation in the bud after being employed by the district for less than a week. With a suggestion by Giles and a speech prepared by Willow, she had approached the school board and calmly presented her argument, even going so far as to demonstrate how the regulation uniform hindered her range of motion and self defense skills. They had been impressed, and she had been able to burn the only outfit made entirely out of polyester that she had ever owned.

There were other aspects of the job that she liked, too. For one, it didn't bother her that she worked in the stillness and quiet of the dark. Maybe that was because she had years of slayer experience under her belt, but, whatever the reason, she found her second shift job as the school's security guard to be peaceful, relaxing. True, sometimes she missed the fact that her watcher was just down the hall in the library like he had been when she herself was a student, and sometimes it would have been nice to have her best friends nearby, willing and able to lend a shoulder or an ear, but, in general, Buffy cherished the alone time she received at work, for it was the only place she could get any privacy, and even a twenty year old, college dropout with no family and absolutely no social life to speak of needed a few minutes to herself to breathe; even she, the chosen one, needed personal, alone time to think.

Plus, financially speaking, the job treated her well. The medical benefits alone had been enough to tempt her to take the position, and the decent wage, much more than any other job she could have procured with only a high school diploma, provided her with the means to support herself, to put food on the table, clothes on her back, and to keep a roof over her head. It was nothing to brag about. She wasn't a doctor, or a lawyer, or even an accountant, but she didn't look good in scrubs, she couldn't lie well enough to be an attorney, and numbers had never been her friend. For now, she was, if not satisfied, then, at least, content with her profession.

Who knew her high school aptitude test would prove to be so accurate?

After doing a quick sweep of the classrooms upstairs, Buffy reconfirmed what she already knew – that the school's second story was clear – and worked her way back towards the wide, tiled staircase that would take her down to the main level once more. She walked with purpose, and she walked with confidence, but, on that particular night, her usual swagger was just routine. She felt anything but confident, and that had everything to do with the phone call she was expecting, hence the cell phone she was grasping like her very lifeline. Tense and stiff, her movements came across as mechanic, but the wide eyed rawness of emotion and fear displayed in her eyes screamed the story that nothing she did that night was natural or reflexive.

She had always hated hospitals, and, over the years, despite the many times she had been forced to either stay in one for her own benefit or visit a friend or family member there, that feeling had not changed. In fact, it had just spread to include those employed at the overly sanitized buildings, for, in Buffy's mind, doctors only ever delivered bad news. Sometimes that bad news was disguised as good, but, in the end, everything around her always unraveled, fell apart, and became unpleasant. So, as she waited for the call, she cursed the fact that her worry was encroaching upon what was supposed to be the easiest part of her day.

It would have made more sense for her to request a call back during the day, during regular doctor office hours, but when had she ever been normal, and, for Buffy, that thought just wasn't an option. If she received the phone call she was waiting for at home, the chances were that someone would be there to overhear her end of the conversation, and, for now, this was no one's business but her own. They would only worry about her, ask questions and demand answers she didn't have, and she wasn't ready to face their fears. Hell, she wasn't even ready to face her own fears yet.

Needing to brace herself, to take a deep breath… or twenty… and get both her mind and body under control, the slayer took a seat on the top step, positioning her feet a few risers below. Leaning forward so that her elbows could rest on her knees, she simply stared forward, her eyes coming to rest upon the large, plain clock that hung from the wall before her. Effortlessly, her head fell forward and hung limply between her two braced arms, the loose, soft strands of hair that had escaped her simple ponytail whispering against the bare skin of her wrists, and Buffy found herself sighing out loud. One of the last warm, comfortable beams of sunlight fell in from a west facing windows, partly illuminating her slouched form, reminding her that her time was running out, that the day would soon be night, and her momentary reprieve of unknowingness would come to a halting, screeching end.

Not five minutes later, her cell phone rang.

Flipping it open, she accepted the call, but never said a word in greeting. She simply couldn't. It felt as if someone had stolen her voice, and, if anyone would know how that particular nightmare felt, she did. However, the person on the other end of the line didn't appear to have the same problem, for they were talking before Buffy could even open her mouth wide enough to bite down on her suddenly trembling bottom lip.

"Good evening," the perky voice greeted, all business yet kindhearted and cordial at the same time. "This is Susan at Doctor Feldman's office calling for Mrs. Summers."

"It's, uh, it's just Miss," the twenty year old corrected. To her own ears, her words seemed foreign, as if they were spoken in a different language or by a voice she didn't recognize. That meek and mild tone could not be her own, but it was.

Immediately contrite and sounding embarrassed, the secretary apologized, "I'm sorry. I just…"

"It's okay." And, really, it was. In that moment, Buffy really didn't mind what the other woman had assumed about her. She probably would have done the same thing, but she had more important things to worry about than whether or not she was being addressed by the proper name. "Could you just please tell me…."

"Oh, yes, of course," Susan replied quickly, interrupting the slayer. "Doctor Feldman asked me to call you and make an appointment. He wants to see you right away."

"So, then, it's bad news."

"I couldn't say," the receptionist answered calmly. Her lines sounded rehearsed, like a veteran stage actress bored by the repetitive nature of her role. "All he said was that he wanted to talk to you in person and that I should schedule you an appointment for as soon as possible. Will tomorrow at noon work for you?"

The young blonde laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, I'll be there." Doctors who were in a hurry to meet with their patients… Buffy knew that was never a good thing. Distractedly, she added a quick, "thanks," before hanging up the phone. Without thought to what she was doing, she allowed it to slip through her clammy fingers and tumble loudly onto the step beside her.

Noon.

Twelve o'clock.

Tomorrow.

It was only a few minutes until nine. She had only a little more than fifteen hours to wait, but the upcoming night already felt like a lifetime. Suddenly, the clock before her was no longer her friend, promising her a reprieve from the wonder and worry. Instead, it was taunting her with the wait, laughing at her immaturity for believing a single, simple phone call would be able to dispel all anxiety and concern. But, worst of all, it reminded her of a dream, one that had haunted her for weeks, one that she, thankfully, hadn't had in well over a year.

_Buffy knew she was dreaming. Despite her tenure as the slayer or maybe because of it, she had a firm grasp upon reality, so she knew the unnatural feel of the images surrounding her weren't real, but that didn't necessarily mean that they weren't important, that they didn't hold some kind of meaning. After all, a part of her duties as the slayer oftentimes included translating and deciphering cryptic, prophetic dreams, but that particular dream, which felt more like a nightmare, didn't seem to be of the visionary nature; rather, it felt haunting, evocative, as if it was trying to remind her of something._

__

Nonetheless, though, it was still very much disturbing. Because of her calling, time already was a mocking device used to torment her. Each and every day there were colorful, tangible, all together too real reminders of just how short her life could be. With danger lurking in every nook, cranny, and shadowy corner, she was always at risk. Every morning that she managed to wake up still alive could very well be her last. She had already managed to surpass the average slayer lifespan… sort of, and that realization, for Buffy, sometimes made her feel as though she was living on borrowed time. So, the fact that she was dreaming about oversized, looming clocks just felt like one, big, mean taunt.

_The only truly clear images in her unconscious state were the time telling devices; everything else __was hazy, cloudy, indistinct, so she had no idea where she was or what she was doing there. There were no demons to fight, no vampires in sight for her to stake. Rather, she just stood there, listening and watching as the clocks around her steadying moved forward, time slipping by at a speed that seemed faster than normal. For a moment, Buffy wondered if she had somehow slipped into another dimension, but she quickly dismissed that notion when she reminded herself that she was just dreaming. However, that didn't stop her near frantic desire to stop time, to break each and every single one of the clocks surrounding her._

_She was stuck, though. Whether she was physically incapable of moving or simply powerless against the natureal course of existence, Buffy didn't know, and she was too worried about what would happen when her one minute time limit was up. Why she only had a minute, she didn't know, and why that minute seemed to stretch on forever in reality but fly by in her dream, she was utterly stumped. What she did know, though, was that nothing would be the same once those precious sixty seconds were over, and she didn't want whatever was going to change to take place, to _ever_ take place._

__

Sobbing miserably, she waited hopelessly, helplessly. In that short plane of time, she was no longer the slayer, looking to prevent yet another tragedy; she was just a girl – a normal girl who wanted something so desperately but knew she couldn't have it. And then it was all over, the clocks disappeared, and she was rocketing herself out of bed and running as fast as she could for the bathroom.

Slowly, her surroundings came back to Buffy as she sat wretchedly on the cold, hard bathroom floor, her body wrapped around the solid, stationing form of the toilet. Outside, it was gray with the kind of light only achieved in the very early moments of the pre-dawn. Officially, it was Christmas morning. Although it wasn't snowing like the year before, it was still gloomy outside. Cold and damp, overcast with clouds so thick there would be no hope for the sun to peak through that day, the slayer felt like the weather was an appropriate expression of her own emotions.

Standing, she pulled herself up so that she was positioned in front of the sink, her pale, hollow face displayed clearly in the mirror before her. After rinsing out her sour tasting mouth, the petite blonde brushed her teeth and washed her face, but, still, she didn't move. Rather, she remained where she was, simply watching her own empty, emotionless eyes. She felt like crap.

After dusting the vamp in the cemetery a few days prior, she had experienced brief waves of dizziness and nausea, but she had believed that the worst of the flu bug had passed her up this time, especially when her mom and two best friends were back on their feet less than forty-eight hours after getting sick in the first place. Now, though, she knew better. Instead, the virus had just been biding its time, kicking its feet up inside of her body, and getting good and comfortable before it revealed itself, gaining strength.

Dejectedly, the slayer crawled back into bed, drawing the covers up tightly all the way to her chin. But she didn't close her eyes. Anything, even being sick again, would be better than having her dream once more, so, instead of sleeping, she remained awake, watching as the light from outside her closed bedroom blinds slowly changed as it bled into her room. Eventually, her eye lids became too heavy for her to hold open any longer, and she succumbed to her body's need for rest but not before she came up with a plan to pay Xander back for his wonderful, oh so kind and generous Christmas present.

After all, hell hath no fury like a slayer sneezed upon. Right?

Shaking off her melancholy recollections, Buffy picked her cell phone back up, stood, and dusted off her backside. Bad news or not, memories of a recurring bad dream that she'd like to eternally forget about or not, she had a job to do, and, if nothing else, Buffy was dependable. Pushing off from her position on the top step, she slowly moved down the staircase.

She only had fourteen hours and forty-five more minutes until she had to meet with Doctor Feldman.

It was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Grazed Knees**

While doctor offices weren't as sterile or as cold as hospitals, they still made Buffy uncomfortable, nevertheless. Whereas the numerous awards and diplomas displayed proudly, haughtily, purposely on the walls were supposed to reassure the physician's patients, they, instead, reminded her of the fact that medicine was a learned skill. Doctors were not gods… no matter how enthusiastically they strived for such distinction or how pompously conceited their egos were. Just as she had easily forgotten the things learned in class when it came time to take the test, medical professionals could fail to remember as well. No, doctors were not invincible. Their patients couldn't depend upon them to always be able to fix or cure them. They were just as fallible, just as human as everyone else, as she herself was, slayer skills or no slayer skills.

The physician seated across from her was no different. While a kind enough man, one who seemed interested in his patient's wellbeing, he was also a stranger with as much control over another person's fate as anyone else. He could smile and tell her that everything was going to be alright, but that didn't guarantee anything, so, really, their meeting that afternoon was nothing more than a formality. No matter what his news was, believing him, trusting him was always going to be a chance but so would ignoring him. In fact, the latter option was the more dangerous of the two, so she bit her tongue, shoved aside her worries, and attempted to focus upon the doctor before her and what he had to say, but that was easier said than done.

Why was it that it was always the most difficult to concentrate when one needed to the most? It was like another example of Murphy's Law. Whenever she needed her wits and strength about her the most, they always failed. Instead of being able to focus, Buffy would find her mind wandering, weaving and dodging its way through her past as it sorted through all her various memories and focused on the very last one she should be recalling in that particular moment, and, as Doctor Feldman addressed her that afternoon, she found history repeating itself once more.

His voice was on the edge of her periphery. While she could certainly hear the words that spewed from his slightly lined but no less gentle mouth, their meaning, their importance was hazy. It was though there was a wave of water separating them, and, no matter what she did, Buffy couldn't find a way to wade through the liquid. It pounded against her, tossed her about, but never, unlike the ocean, receded back to the depths from which it was created.

"I'm surprised to see you here today alone. I thought that surely you'd have someone with you – a significant other, a family member, even a friend…?

Distractedly, the slayer admitted, "no, there's no one."

"Certainly, I don't have to explain to you, Miss Summer's, just how important it is that you have some sort of support system behind you. What you are about to face…" Allowing his sentence to fall and drop incomplete, the doctor re-gathered himself. "Let's just say that, if there is someone you can call, I think it would be a good idea. This is not something someone should go through alone."

"I understand."

And she did, but that didn't mean that there was anybody that she was prepared to share the burden of her situation with. Her friends were wonderful. She loved and appreciated them more than she could ever fully express, but that didn't mean this was something they would confront and deal with alongside her. Just like in the past, they would be on the outside of the situation, lending a hand as much as they possibly could, but they would never be in the thick of her battles, front and center as she faced the demons and monsters only she could defeat. Though this situation did not involve a supernatural being or a force of evil, it was, nonetheless, her situation to face alone, always alone.

_It was New Years Eve. Willow was off at some gig with Oz. Her best friend had promised Buffy that she would have invited her, but the redhead didn't want her to feel like the third wheel, and she and Oz were planning to make a date of their evening despite the fact that he was with the band playing for the party. Xander was off with Anya, and, frankly, Buffy did not want to know what their plans were. As it was, she heard way too much about the ex-demon's sex life, and she certainly didn't need to hear more. Her mother was off celebrating the last night of the year with some art circle friends, Giles was busy doing whatever it was that Giles did when he attempted to have a personal life, and Riley was working._

__

While she knew that she should care that she wasn't spending the evening with… whatever Riley was to her now, she wasn't, but she did resent the fact that she was alone on what was, perhaps, the most important holiday of the entire year, for it wasn't any other contrived reason to dress festively and party that promised to determine what the next 365 days of one's life would be like. New Year's Eve shared that burden all onto itself. And she supposed that she should have been upset that there would be no one at her side to kiss that night when the clock struck twelve, but Buffy wasn't. In fact, the last thing she felt like doing was swapping spit with some guy, any guy other than the one that she did want… and for more than just kissing.

Had she mentioned yet that she hated holidays?

Years ago, she wouldn't have been in such a predicament. Before she was called as the slayer, she was the center of everybody's social calendar. No party worth attending would be organized without both her approval and her opinion. No two popular people would be allowed to couple off unless she deemed them a well matched pair. And, before, she certainly wouldn't have been alone on New Year's Eve. Hell, before, Buffy was never alone. Oh, how things had changed….

At first, being by herself had been difficult to get used to. Ostracized from popular company, she had been forced to find new friends, and, in retrospect, she knew them to be better friends, but, even after she moved to Sunnydale and was included in Willow and Xander's inner circle, there were still times when Buffy was alone. Her night job simply forced the issue, for there was no human who could possibly survive all the things she had to both face and win against. But then there was Angel, her… Well, she wasn't sure what he was to her at that point, but what he meant to her, still meant to her, couldn't be trivialized by simply referring to him as her ex as everyone else did when they thought she wasn't listening or around. Though it was painful to think about him, let alone voice his name even if only to herself, on that particularly, lonely night, Buffy needed the comfort his presence, if only remembered, brought her.

Before he had left her, Angel had made her loneliness disappear, because, whenever her friends were busy or couldn't be there for her, he was. Being alone had meant that she could be with Angel, that no one would either know or judge her for spending time with the souled vampire they still blamed for his soulless alter ego's crimes and depravities. And spending time with Angel was when she was the happiest. Even if they weren't together physically, in her heart, they were still Buffy and Angel, so that meant sitting beside him quietly while he read, simply watching the ruby and amber flames of the fire dance and jump, twirl and die down only to reappear seconds later, was better than dancing to any new band playing at The Bronze or seeing any ridiculously cheesy action flick Xander dragged her and Willow to.

_If Angel had still been in town, Buffy had no doubt that she would be spending the evening with him. Not like _that_, though the idea certainly didn't repulse her, but simply being. Existing. Cohabiting. He would have recognized the fact that, despite what she claimed, she still didn't feel well, that her Christmas flu bug was still lingering persistently even after almost an entire week of rest and taking it easy. He would have started one of his fires, fires that were warmer and more welcoming than anyone else's fires, he would have made her a cup of hot chocolate, and he would have held her in his arms, the strength and solidarity of his frame wound protectively around her __doing more to make her feel better than any medication or doctor's recommendation ever could. And, when midnight came around, well… she certainly wouldn't have been sitting alone in the park on a cold, wooden, uncomfortable bench, eating her way through an entire snack pack of Jell-O._

__

It was lime. Despite the fact that it wasn't a particularly balmy evening, the coolness, the freshness of the lime was reinvigorating, soothing, and it didn't matter to Buffy, as she shoved bite after bite into her greedily anticipating mouth, that, typically, she wasn't much of a citrus fan. All that mattered was that, after a week of anything besides bland, boring carbs upsetting her stomach, it tasted good to eat something with a little flavor. What had made her break into the juvenile snack cups her mom had stocked away in the back corner of the pantry, she didn't know, but, as she finished her last container with gusto, with a satisfied sigh of contentment, Buffy smiled to herself. It was the first genuine smile she had worn on her otherwise sullen and depressed face in days.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here," an unfamiliar voice asked from behind where she sat. "Is the slayer taking a break?"

Returning with a glib retort of her own, Buffy asked, "are all vampires so inept with their comments and questions?"

Standing, she stepped aside from the bench and prepared her body for a fight. Not that the vamp before her appeared as though he would present much of a challenge. He was slight in build, wiry, almost gangly even, and she found herself wondering just how old he had been as a human when he was turned. Despite the hardness in his undead, lifeless eyes and the apparent wear of time upon his unchanging appearance, she would have guessed he had been no more than an awkward teenager when turned, but that realization did not diminish her urge to send the nameless opponent straight to hell. Whether an innocent or not when drained and reanimated years before, he was now an unapologetic demon. He would show no signs of hesitancy when it came to ending her life, and she wasn't about to disappointment him by suddenly wimping out.

"What's wrong, slayer? You don't look so good."

"It's called the flu, jackass," she bit out. "Way to make a girl feel good about herself. Didn't your mother ever teach you that, when it comes to a woman's appearance, a guy – whether alive or not quite – should always lie?"

As she spoke, she advanced towards the awaiting demon, her fists raised in anticipatory tension, but, even as she progressed towards her prey, he didn't back down, he didn't ready himself to fight back, he didn't even move to defend himself. "No, that's not it," he finally argued. At that point, no more than a foot separated their forms. "There's something else going on with you, something more than just the flu, slayer."

"I don't care what it is," she snarked. "I'm still going to kick your undead ass."

_He started talking again, but she only heard the words; their meaning didn't register until several minutes later. While his slightly high pitched voiced rambled on, she lunged towards him, but, at the last minute, the vampire shot a leg out, tripping the slayer and making her fall to her knees. She grazed them on the sidewalk, but, before she could access whether or not the fall had broken through the material of her jeans and the skin of her legs, the vamp was upon her, reaching out with both of his dirty, disgusting hands to take possession of her vulnerable neck. Without thought, she reached into her jacket pocket, producing the stake she always had ready, and plunged it into his waiting, still heart. The demon disintegrated into dust, unwanted, unwarranted tears started to slide down her clammy face, and, before she could even attempt to pick herself up off the ground, Buffy started to retch violently onto the grass beside her.  
__  
It was while she was throwing up that she recalled what the now dusted vampire had said just as she was attacking him. He had, almost reverently, started to chant, "two hearts that beat as one," but, unlike the vamp from the week before, the comment did not spark derision or humor from the slayer; her recently bested opponent did not bring to mind thoughts of Stacey Q or any other tacky pop song, but, at the same time, Buffy wasn't ready to face or to confront just what exactly the vampire's statement made her feel._

_Standing up, she ignored the slight pain in her knees and hobbled back to her bench. Collapsing onto it, the wooden structure suddenly felt as soft as, as comfortable as, her own bed at home, and Buffy sighed in relief. With the silent tears still streaming down her face, she reached into the pocket of her coat, the one where she didn't keep her trusty stake, and pulled out a zip lock bag of saltine crackers. Silently, she ate, waiting for another vamp to dust but hoping that, for the rest of the night, she would be left alone, no matter how scary or frightening her current thoughts were.  
_

By the time Buffy fluidly returned to the present, several moments of silence had stretched between she and the doctor, but Buffy refused to be the one to break it. After all, what exactly did she have to say? She surely couldn't explain her lifestyle to this stranger sitting before her. Not only would he be incapable of really understanding her, but he would also believe her to be insane. At this juncture of her life, the last thing she needed was an investigation into her sanity. Plus, if nothing else, she was stubborn. Yes, the situation awaiting her was complicated, and scary, and emotional, but that was her life, and no one, not even a doctor with several degrees – both earned and awarded – was going to tell her that she couldn't handle something… even if he was, in all likelihood, probably right.

So, instead of backing down, instead of admitting that Doctor Feldman had a point and that, at the next juncture of her journey, she would bring someone along with her next time, she sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared him down. While she might not have her PH.D., and while she certainly didn't have her name on several well-cushioned bank accounts, her will, her tenacity, her sheer obstinacy was unrivaled. The physician before her was going to cave.

And he did.

"Well, anyway, moving on, as I suspected, Miss Summers, this is, unfortunately, not a simple case of macular degeneration. I fear it's much more serious."

"What is it then?" She had no room for broad statements, for hemming and hawing around the issue without actually addressing it. She wanted answers, she deserved answers, and she was going to get them. For too long, whatever it was that she was about to face had been a mystery, had been the one unsolvable thing in her life when, no matter what, she always found a way to solve everyone's problems. After all, that's what she did. "What's wrong?"

"I want you to see a specialist, someone who is more familiar with this area of medicine."

Persistently, she pressed, growing more and more uncomfortable, more and more aggravated with the man's avoidance of the topic. Narrowing her eyes and leaning forward, Buffy pierced the doctor with her most unwavering glare. "No," she argued. "I came to you. You're supposed to be the best. I want you to tell me what _you_ thinkis wrong."

"But, Miss Summers, I'm just an optometrist. You're asking me to diagnose something I've only seen in a textbook, that I've only read about. I can't…."

"You can tell me what you suspect," she interrupted desperately. Without conscious thought, she felt herself reach for the very knee she had remembered scraping years before, and, as if she could feel a phantom pain, she picked at the long-healed wound, nervously, through her jeans, worrying the perfect skin underneath. It was the only physical tell she displayed that told of her fear. Everything else she kept hidden, kept to herself.

"After waiting, patiently I might add, for days to find out what's wrong, your office called me to set up an appointment. Your secretary wouldn't tell me anything, just that you wanted to speak to me in person, and, now, I get here, and you still won't tell me anything other than the fact that you believe you know what's wrong, but you're too scared, too much of a coward, to tell me what it is that you think. I have been going out of my mind with worry, and you want me to go home even more terrified? What kind of doctor are you? I thought you guys promised not to do any harm? Well, let me tell you, you have caused me pain. While it might be emotional and not physical, I'll take a broken bone or a concussion any day – hell, every day – over this present torture you're putting me through." Resorting to pleading, she beseeched the physician, "please, Doctor Feldman, I'm begging you. Just tell me what's wrong."

Looking as chastised as he must have felt, the doctor apologetically replied, "I'm so sorry, Miss Summers, so sorry, but I fear that….

And that's when her world fell apart, no hell gods, demons, or egotistical mayors required.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Blindsided  
**

As Buffy stepped into her house that afternoon, a house she shared with the people that meant the most to her… or, at least, most of them, she realized she had been wrong, ignorantly so. While driving home from her appointment, she had felt as though she finally knew what it was like to hit rock bottom. After finding out what she had learned…. Even if the doctor himself feared he was inaccurate in his hesitant diagnosis, she knew it in her heart to be true. It was simply too agonizing not to be real. Perhaps her automatic acceptance was pessimistic, but too many things – bad things – had happened to her in her relatively short lifespan for Buffy to hope for the best anymore. She was well past the point of blind faith and naïve trust. Once that realization was achieved, a person could not fall any lower… or so she had thought.

With a tired, defeated sigh, she dropped her eyes onto the table by the stairs, the place where she always kept her things. Despite the fact that nothing was the same as it had been just an hour before, that, at least – her habits, shaped and molded by countless repetitions – could remain constant. True, it didn't particularly matter, but, faced with the sudden bleakness of her world, the small familiarity was a slight, if not exactly comfort, than a consolation. Besides, even if she wanted to place her keys in another location, Buffy wasn't sure she'd be able to find an uncluttered, clean spot in the entire expanse of her home to do so.

Both dirty and clean laundry littered the floor. None of it was folded, and none of it was sorted, but, rather, the items were simply tossed about at random, no apparent sense of order or purpose evident. Used dishes lined the kitchen counter and filled the sink, evidence of the fact that someone had been cooking that day but had either decided they didn't want to clean up after themselves or had simply been called away before such action could be taken. The cushions on the couch were tossed off, along with the pillows, creating a maze of obstacles across the living room floor. Knickknacks were moved and misplaced, a thin sheen of flour coated anything that could catch and hold a particle of dust, and books were scattered across the floor, up the stairs, and on top of any free, available surface. There was even a partially filled bag of garbage spewing its contents haphazardly by the back door.

As long as no one was hurt, Buffy knew that she shouldn't care about the mess. After all, she herself had been to blame for several home catastrophes in the past, but, after the day she had just experienced, the last thing in the world that she wanted to do was pick up after somebody else. Physically, mentally, and, more importantly, emotionally, she was exhausted, bone tired, and so weary that she wasn't sure she'd be able to face the light of day ever again. The idea of pushing aside her fatigue to load the dishwasher, run the vacuum, and actually manage to find the floor that she suspected resided underneath the destruction of her home made the tears she had been so careful to push aside, to conceal, come to the surface.

Stubbornly, she had made it through her meeting with Doctor Feldman, out of his office, into her car, and all the way across town without breaking down, but, now, standing in her own foyer, if nothing else, the visible proof that life still did exist, that she couldn't simply shrivel up and die in order to hide from the truth and pain confronting her face on, she finally buckled. Not physically, of course, for no matter what, as the slayer, she could face much more rigorous forms of weariness, but psychologically. The shattered, destroyed sobs wracked her delicate shoulders and chest, silent screams of pain rippling through her, for the sheer force of her emotions was too strong to materialize vocally. With muscles tensed as if, subconsciously, the slayer instinct inside of her wanted to lash out and bodily pummel her unseen, unconquerable opponent, she stood frozen, the shock, and the disillusionment, and the complete lack of hope enveloping her in an impenetrable cocoon of concrete misery. And the tears – salty, mocking globes of self-pity and remorse – didn't stop, wouldn't stop, as if her own body now suddenly was beyond her control.

"Yep, I totally bawled, too, when I saw this place," Xander suddenly announced from the entrance to the living room. Where he had come from, where he had been in the house that she had been so blind and deaf to his presence, Buffy was at a loss to say. "I'm talking when Lassie bit the big one and Little Foot found out his parents went to dinosaur heaven combined tears. It wasn't pretty, let me tell you."

She expected for him to make some kind of joke about how a slayer shouldn't be afraid of a little elbow grease, how she could face the baddies most in need of plastic surgery and not bat a single lash but the idea of cleaning was enough to bring her to her knees, but, instead, Xander pressed on with the one question she knew she was supposed to avoid hearing, the very one she knew she couldn't deal with.

"So, where were you all day, Buff?"

Ignoring his query, she, instead, posed one of her own. "What happened to this place?"

"Willow, new spell book, sudden realization that she forgot to write a term paper," he answered. "That's where she is, by the way – at school, working on it. I must say, despite the mess, that, after years of listening to her lecture me about putting things off to the last minute, I'm enjoying the results of Willow procrastination. I've never seen her more distracted. It's better than coffee. I think I'll be able to use this to my advantage… somehow. Maybe I'll get her to cough me up some sudden inheritance spells or a few handsome potions, not that this face could be improved upon that much more."

He would have continued, he would have rambled on for hours if she would have let him, and she should have let him, because, while caught within the crosshairs of his own vanity and self-worth, he would have completely forgotten about the fact that she had been MIA that afternoon – again, but she couldn't allow him his current track of distraction. Rather, she needed an answer. "Where's…?"

"Oh, she's with G-man," her friend replied without waiting for or, apparently, needing the rest of the question. "But don't ask me more than that, because that's all Willow told me before she literally shoved me out of the doorway and took off on her broomstick." Laughing at his own comment, he added, "not literally, of course. After all, we both know she prefers vacuums. They have more horsepower."

That, of course, was another joke. Not in the mood for another of Xander's common and not really all that humorous stand up routines, Buffy moved towards the stairs, stepping over and bypassing all the clutter strewn across the floor. But Xander wasn't accepting her wordless dismissal. Running in front of her, he blocked her progression towards the steps, crossing his arms to emphasize his determination. "You still haven't answered my question, Buff."

"I was out."

It was vague, it was trivializing, and she knew, before it had even finished leaving her lips, that he wouldn't allow it to settle the issue between them. "Don't," he warned her simply. "After everything we've been through, everything we've helped you with, we – I – deserve some kind of explanation for your recent behavior, Buffy. You've been distant, absentminded, gone, and, when we ask you what's going on, you stonewall us. That's only cool for eccentric Civil War military dudes… which you are not one of."

"Look, where I was, it's personal."

"Oh, you mean like the last time you started doing this," he retorted snidely, the sudden strength of his bitterness shocking and hurting her.

Taking a step back and nearly tripping over an umbrella, Buffy gasped in emotional injury. "You have no right to go there, to throw that in my face. You know now what I was going through back then."

"Yeah, I do," Xander admitted, "and I also know that history is starting to repeat itself."

"It's not… it's different this time," the slayer promised him. Realizing that, no matter what he protested, she did not have to explain herself to him or anybody else, Buffy straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders back. Despite their severe height difference, her intimidating glower caused her friend to step aside. "Look, I've had a really bad day, and the last thing I need right now is the third degree, especially from you. Now, I have to go into work in a couple of hours, so, right now, I'm going upstairs, and I'm going to lay down. If you value our friendship at all, you'll drop this."

Without waiting to see or hear his response, she brushed past him, taking the steps slower than she usually did. It was no more than ten seconds later that she completely forgot her confrontation with Xander. In the grand scheme of her life, their little disagreement didn't really matter. Sooner than she'd like, he'd learn the truth of the matter behind her mysterious actions, and, eventually, their bridges would be mended and all would be forgiven. More importantly, she simply didn't have the reserve of energy left that it would take to worry about the disappointment she had seen shining brightly within Xander's gaze as he looked upon her before she had fled towards the awaiting, temporary oasis of her bedroom.

The journey to her room seemed to stretch out indefinitely before her, never-ending and exhausting in its seemingly unconquerable extent. The stairs felt steeper and more physically demanding, the upstairs short hallway more like a boundless labyrinth, and the effort it took for her to push her bedroom door open was far greater than any effort she had previously been prophesied to use in order to defeat the forces of evil. So, by the time she reached her still unmade bed, she fell to its welcoming, familiar, comforting softness without care of the fact that she still had her shoes on, that one of her few good outfits would be wrinkled beyond measure by the time she awoke later, and that she never did set her alarm for work.

But it didn't matter. Sleep, a rather elusive pleasure for her under normal circumstances, had been either unbearably absent from her life lately or difficult and painful once she found it. That afternoon proved no different. Shifting restlessly, she dreamed of another day, of another dream, of another memory.

_Angel was sitting across from her. Together, in a kitchen she didn't know but recognized intimately in every, single detail, they sat staring at each other. There was a stiffness between them, one that she recognized as uncertainty, but even that she found comforting after months of being separated from him. As they stared, they drank tea, or, at least, they held cups of tea, with the shared, common teapot resting precisely halfway between them. It was, as though, the inanimate object was to act like a moderator._

__

It didn't.

Instead of really opening up to each other like she could sense in her dream that they needed to, the two of them, as always since that night that changed everything, kept a part of themselves closed off, distanced. There was so much between them, both new and old, and Buffy knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that, if they didn't confront and surmount their issues that evening, they never would. While there was no looming clock in this nightmare, for, again, that's what the experience felt like, time was still essential, still controlling them… just in a different way.

_But she was powerless in her dream to help. Her voice disappeared into the quiet space between the ex-lovers, and she held no corporeal form in her subconscious mind. Instead, she was just a voyeur into the couple's moment, no more real than the nightmare itself. Again, though, she __questioned the merit of her own assumptions, for, despite the fact that she knew herself to be sleeping, what she was experiencing, what she was seeing in the dream, didn't feel imagined at all. It felt more like a memory, as if she had really been there once – in that dark yet homey kitchen with Angel seated across from her, talking to the man she loved more than life itself like they were passing acquaintances and not soul mates._

__

Their interaction was cold, not for a lack of feeling but out of necessity. They were both acting logically instead of irrationally, empirically rather than emotionally, and she knew such behavior was foolish. When life was so fickle, so short, Buffy knew that reason meant nothing to a broken heart, and, as she watched herself rationalize away what she was feeling, she knew that's what she had, both now and then… whenever the dream memory had actually taken place, if it had taken place at all. The pain she felt from the heartache was palpable, was real, was tangible, but it wasn't centered inside of her chest but, instead, deep within her body, her abdomen.

Ricocheting up out of bed, Buffy launched herself to the bathroom. While she never paid particular attention to her cycle, for what did it matter if she was a few days early or late when she wasn't currently sexually active, the sudden cramping was a relief. Even she knew when her period was more than a month late. Despite the fact that she didn't fear pregnancy, that did not mean that she wanted something else to be wrong, so the sudden, albeit uncomfortable, reappearance of her menses was calming. There was nothing wrong with her. Her body was fine. She'd be able to have kids someday if she wanted… as long as she didn't die first from other, less natural causes.

_But she quickly realized that the sharp pain in her stomach wasn't cramps at all. Putting the tampon she had come into the bathroom for back into its box, she turned off the light and shuffled back to her bed, the ache subsiding into a mild, constant twinge. Closing her eyes, she reached a cool hand under the loose constraints of her pajama top to rub soothing, spherical caresses into her tender abdomen. The touch was relaxing, gentle, and, moments later, Buffy was, once more, sound asleep.  
_

The dream of the past ended just as abruptly as it had begun, and Buffy woke, slowly, unsurely, tentatively. There was no pain like there had been years before, and her only recently dried cheeks became wet again as a new, fresh batch of tears found their way upon her pale, clammy face. If there had been pain, then, at least for a moment, she would have been able to believe that she was reliving her life, that she had been given a chance to go back and redo everything… even if such an opportunity would never be able to change her present.

No, what was could not be altered, or defeated, or circumvented. It was predetermined, just as set in stone as the prophecies which ruled her life as a slayer. One could not hide from it by turning back time, for it had always been there, since the day of its inception, waiting, dormant, anticipating, even if hiding was the only thing Buffy wanted it to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Naked as We Came  
**

During her many years as the slayer, Buffy had learned one important lesson. Without balance, the world is chaos. Good needs evil, to be fair one needs to know what it is like to be unjust, and one needs someone to be wrong if they are to be right. Though no one likes the bad half of any equation, she had come to realize that it was a necessary ill all must endure in order to fully appreciate what is right and just with the world. And so, now, that's how she looked at hospitals, too – as an unpleasant yet crucial part of society.

Oh, she still loathed the antiseptic scent seemingly inherent to any medical facility, and she hated the idea of someone having the power to hold her against her will, and the thought of being a lab rat was too disturbing to contemplate, but sometimes there were things – diseases and illnesses, injuries and issues – that she couldn't simply will away, couldn't stubborn out. She had certainly tried, though, so it couldn't be said that her concession was one of giving in, for, when her mother became sick now more than six months ago, she had fought back against the idea, against everything that the hospital told her with every ounce of stubborn, willful resolve she possessed.

She insisted upon magic and spells, that they would cure her ill mother and not the science of modern medicine. She tried to convince others that it was all the idea of mind over matter, that they could simply positively think Joyce into recuperating. She even started to eat healthy, to visit herb shops, and she forced the unpleasant natural cocktails of vitamins, minerals, and various oils down her mother's throat, naively believing they would do what surgery couldn't. But her mom had died anyway, and the only thing during her last few months on earth that seemed to ease her suffering at all was the painkillers the hospital provided her with. Nothing Buffy did helped at all.

And, then, there was her own rather recent experience with staying in the hospital, but that, given her present situation, was even more hurtful to contemplate than her mother's brain tumor. That, at least, was finished. Whether she second guessed herself or not, Joyce was dead, and buried, and Buffy liked to think at peace, but she couldn't say the same thing about the current medical crisis facing her. With that, all she could do was look to the past, trying to find the one thing she did to make everything fall apart. There had to be a moment, a decision, a mistake that she could focus on and self-flagellate herself for. Despite the fact that no one knew of and appreciated the power of fate more than she did, Buffy simply couldn't write her latest trouble off as unavoidable, as unstoppable. Doing so would admit that she was powerless, and that was the one thing she could never deal with.

So, that's why she found herself at the hospital once more, ignoring her aversion to the place and seeking the help it could provide her, despite her hesitation, despite her discomfort, despite her reserve. In truth, she had no other place left to turn, but that didn't make her time spent there any easier or any more pleasant.

With a disinterested flick of her wrist, she turned one page and then the next in the outdated fashion magazine that she was pretending to browse through, but clothes, and makeup, and the latest trends meant absolutely nothing to the slayer. The glossy publication was simply a prop, something she could hold and touch and use to blend into her environment, seemingly distracting those around her from noticing her too much, and the menial action served as a ruse to her own brain. If her hands remained busy, then she wouldn't fidget, she wouldn't struggle as much against herself, and, hopefully, she wouldn't attempt to flee.

But everything – the setting, the motion, the feelings of bewilderment and fear – were too much, were too familiar, and she found herself recalling another day in another hospital waiting room when she was alone and scared, a magazine perched precariously in her lap while her quivering fingers twitched uncertainly across its pages. It wasn't a time that she wanted to recall, but, given her situation and her location, it seemed inevitable and almost fitting as she fought herself from returning to that haunting moment from her past.

_It was midmorning. The sun was out and shining brightly, not a rare feat for Southern California, but it was still warmer than usual for that time of year, and Buffy found the heat unbearable. It was like a spotlight of ridicule was glaring directly upon her, as if the warmth was present to remind her of her mistakes, to make it even more uncomfortable for her to hide behind her shapeless clothes and cloaking hood. And the brightness, the sheer joy the sun bestowed upon her little world, was nothing more than a mockery – a laugh behind her back and a slap to her face, whispering to her that it knew, that everyone knew, that she knew the truth. She hated it._

__

She wanted the weather to reflect her inner turmoil, to match the pain and trepidation she was currently enslaved to. Sharp lightning bolts and heavy claps of thunder, wind so powerful it could force the strongest man to his knees, rain so drenching, so overpowering, that it washed away any semblance of life before the storm and simply left a wasteland in its wake. But, then again, when did she ever get what she wanted?

She wanted to be a normal girl, living a carefree, normal life, and, instead, she became the slayer. She wanted to have a normal boyfriend and a normal relationship, but, rather, she ended up falling in love with a vampire and ruining her chances of ever finding happiness with some regular Joe. And she wanted to simply get through college without any major drama or catastrophe ruining her life, but, of course, she went out and put the kibosh on that idea before the first semester was even over. And the worst part? Everybody seemed to know.

Lifting her previously sightless gaze from the magazine she was practically destroying with her panicked touch, Buffy surreptitiously glanced about the waiting room. Its colors, again bright and cheerful, made her eyes sting, and she quickly blinked away the moisture before the other patients could see the liquid emotion shining within her hazel depths. It wasn't so much that she was embarrassed for how she was feeling, but everyone else there seemed so damn happy, so content and at peace with their lives and with themselves. If she were to suddenly break down into tears, they'd all rush to comfort her, to ask her what was wrong, and she didn't want to talk to anybody about what she was going through, especially someone who was in the same boat but not trying to flood the damn thing so they could gracefully go down with the ship before it docked safely.

But it was impossible to hide, to disappear and avoid notice. It felt like every single pair of eyes were upon her – watching, gleaning, studying. They looked on in sympathy, in compassion, and some seemed to wait on baited breath for her to put her walls down and unburden her mind and soul at their feet. Despite the fact that she was sure they already knew her story, they wanted her to defile herself some more and share with them anyway. They wanted to hear the self-deprecating remarks leave her lips in a torrid exhalation of recrimination and doubt. And she hated them all for it.

Needing a release for her caged in, pent up emotions, Buffy started to tap her right foot against the right front wooden leg of the chair she was sitting in. Soon, though, that tapping turned into pounding, but the rhythmic gesture wasn't enough. Before she could even contemplate her actions and what they meant, what others would take them to mean, she was tearing tiny strips of glossy paper from the magazine and biting her bottom lip so hard that she drew blood.

_The magazine she didn't care about. It was pointless, and superficial, and months past its publication date, but the blood... Oh, the blood was a different matter. As she licked her own wounded lip, taking in a sampling of her own life force in an effort to cover up her actions, Buffy thought about all the various things the thick, red, sustaining liquid meant to her. Blood was survival and sustenance. Blood was the reason she fought and the reason why so many died. It was energy, and beauty, and pain, and everything and anything caught precariously between. Blood was vampire and slayer, slayer and vampire, Angel and Buffy, Buffy and Angel, and, now, it was also...  
__  
"Miss Summers...?"_

__

"What," she automatically answered, asked, jumping out of her chair so fast that the magazine she had just moments ago been shredding fell unceremoniously from her lap to land in a puddle at her feet. Flushing immediately at her clumsy, nervous behavior, she bent over to pick up the destroyed publication, putting it back where she found it despite its current state, all without looking up from her own feet.

Seemingly understanding, the patient nurse remarked once she was finished, "you're next. The doctor will see you now."

She followed as she knew she was expected to, but she moved slowly... as if, once she finished her walk, it would all be over. At the end of the bright, hospital hallway stood waiting for her the executioner, but, unfortunately, in this particular living nightmare, she couldn't face her destiny with courage and self-respect. Rather, Buffy hung her head, ashamed, and felt the burning sting of embarrassment as it warmed her otherwise pale cheeks. As she left that waiting room, she could feel every other woman watching her, their glances pinning and torturous in their knowledge. It was like that fear every student had in high school of walking up at the front of the class, ready to give their oral report only to discover that they're naked... only it was worse, because this time there was something more to see.

Suddenly, the door behind her clicked shut, and Buffy realized that she had allowed herself to get trapped inside the exam room. Though the fluorescent lights shone just as brightly and the walls were just as colorful as the waiting room's, the harsh, confrontational light of day was missing from the small office space, and, in its absence, she found the presence of shadowy, dim corners. Instead of being comforting, though, it reminded her of a visually deceptive dungeon. She wanted to run, she wanted to flee, and hide, and never come back, but it was too late now. The doctor was there, staring at her with those almost understanding yet not quite genuine eyes that all doctors have because, no matter how many cases they've seen, they've never actually been where their patients are themselves, and her determination to escape withered, for, even if she left without hearing the truth, she still would know what it was.

She already did.

"I just got your test results back, Miss Summers."

"Would you just cut to the chase, please," she asked the medical professional seated before her.

"Of course," he reassured her. "Everyone always says that it's the waiting that is the worst part."

But, yet, he still rambled on. She wanted to reach across the space that separated them and squeeze the words out of his flat, humorous mouth; she wanted to hold her hand over his flat, humorous mouth so that he could never say another word ever again.

He startled her with a smile. "Congratulations, Miss Summers. You're going to..."

"Miss Summers."

"Miss Summers," someone yelled, but, still, the slayer was trapped in the past.

Finally desperate, the voice shouted, "Buffy Summers!"

"That's me. I'm here," Buffy finally responded, standing to face the concerned countenance of the nurse before her. Sheepishly, she shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry. I was..."

"In another world, apparently," the LPN finished for her. "Considering the fact that I work in a hospital, I can tell you that it definitely wasn't the first time I've seen such a thing happen, but the doctor's ready for you. If you'll just follow me..."

And she did. Tossing aside the magazine she had still been desperately clutching in her sweaty hands, Buffy obediently walked behind the nurse as she led her towards Doctor Welby's office. Doctor Welby was a specialist. She came highly recommended, highly respected in both her field and the medical world in general, and, after receiving the files from Doctor Feldman, she had immediately accepted Buffy's case. While she appreciated the interest and the speed in which the doctor showed it, a little less enthusiasm would have been preferable. After all, even Buffy knew that doctors only acted so quickly when things were dire.

The nurse left them alone as soon as Buffy entered the lavish office, the LPN closing the door soundlessly behind her as she left. With practiced, precise steps, the slayer crossed the room and sat down in one of the two chairs sitting opposite the medical professional's large, ornate desk. As she folded her delicate hands in her lap, she met the older woman's unwavering gaze. Neither of them blinked.

"How much has Doctor Feldman told you?"

"He said that I needed you," Buffy said in a quiet yet unmistakably strong voice. "He told me what it is that I'm about to face, but he didn't tell me what that meant. He told me that it was bad."

"And did you go home and look things up on your own?"

Smiling self-deprecatingly, she responded, "I've never exactly been research girl. That's more my friends' area of expertise."

"Speaking of these friends, I noticed that there's no one here with you today."

"That's a keen sense of observation you have there, Doc."

She knew it was flippant, that it was rude, but Buffy couldn't help herself. Evidently, by the patient nod from Doctor Welby, she, too, understood Buffy's need to push aside real emotion with sarcasm. "Miss Summers, I'm about to be very blunt with you, but, before I am, and I'm sure you've already heard this before, but, as your physician, I must say again how important it is for someone in your position to have a support system behind them. And I'm not talking about a traditional family – a husband and four grandparents and a couple of siblings tossed in there for good measure, too; I just mean that it's going to be essential for you to have people to turn to who will help you, who will be there for you, who will listen when you scream with rage or hold you when you cry."

"I get what you're saying, and you're right. Doctor Feldman told me the same thing, but, for now, this is something that I have to do on my own... at least, until I know exactly what I'm facing."

"Alright then, if that's what you want." Unflinchingly, Doctor Welby paused only long enough to take a breath before plunging head first into the very words Buffy had been waiting and dreading to hear for weeks. "I'm sorry, Miss Summers, but your daughter is dying."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Cheated Hearts  
**

She had often wished for a round table in her mother's dining room. Now that she had passed away, Buffy supposed that it was her dining room to decorate as she saw fit, but, even after years of wanting the change, she couldn't bring herself to alter the space. Although not her personal style or taste, besides her memories which seemed to be evaporating detail by detail each day, all she had left of her mom was the home they had shared together, so everything remained unchanged, constant, a shrine, if you will, of Joyce Summers. Some would call it creepy, but Buffy simply called it home.

The first time she could remember hankering for a round table was the very first night she and her mother spent in their new house in Sunnydale. While her family had never been large – just she and her parents, it had felt almost non-existent without her father's presence. In L.A., they had been complete, three separate yet connected entities which together formed a triangle. She had felt safe within their familial walls, secure in the knowledge that, no matter what, she always had somebody on both sides of her. But then her father left, and it was just the two of them, and no more did Buffy feel surrounded. As they had sat down for their very first dinner in their new home, that fact had come crashing down on top of her.

At least, if they had been sitting around a circular table, then it would have seemed like there was a continual flow between herself and her mother, but, instead, it was just the two of them, lost and cast into a corner, empty space encroaching upon their meal from the vast, unoccupied space of the rest of the table. Of course, she had never said anything. In fact, Buffy had felt more than slightly ridiculous for her thoughts and almost as though she betrayed her mother by feeling like the one parent who chose to remain in her life wasn't enough. Whether or not Joyce had felt the loneliness of that rectangular table, Buffy never asked and never found out, but, as she sat around it that evening, she found herself wondering.

Then there were also the times when she wanted the table to be round for slaying reasons. As the slayer, as the chosen one, her friends always turned to her for guidance and advice, instructions and encouragement whenever they were facing a new adversary. True, Giles was her watcher, and, yes, he would help her, but, when the chips were all down, it was her responsibility to call. And, because of this, during any given Scooby meeting, she always sat at the head of the table, her burden pointedly obvious due to her position of leadership during their gathering. If the table had been round, despite actuality, it would have felt as though she shared the burden, as if she was just another member of the team and not the team's only hope.

Some days around the table were worse than others. Buffy remembered planning the arrangements for her mother's funeral, wishing sincerely that she could simply melt away and disappear into the shadows, but, sitting at the front of the table, there had been no possibility of that. But even that day didn't come close to mirroring the discomfort, the angst, the tension she felt that evening. As she sat there, her back ramrod straight just like the general she was, whether in name or not, she met the gaze of each and every single person before her, their expressions guarded yet curious, hesitant yet trusting. It was then that something became clear to Buffy.

While everyone else seemed to grow and expand as they got older, she and her friends did not. Normal people graduated from high school, went on to college, and started to assemble the pieces of their adult lives. They met new friends, dated, fell in love, and, eventually married and began their own families. Those connected with the slayer, though, didn't have that luxury. Their lives were too complicated for love and commitment. Because of their loyalty to her, Giles, Willow, and Xander had all lost people they loved and had either been damaged beyond the point of trying again or suppressed by the burden of her world upon their unprepared shoulders. Everyone left, and, slowly, their numbers, once alive and rich and overflowing, had now dwindled down to just the four of them. Though four filled her mother's dining room table better than two, the space still felt too empty, and, now, their chances of someday adding another member to their group were obsolete.

"There's something I have to tell you, something important," Buffy started, only to pause and swallow roughly as the words that wouldn't stop screaming at her, yelling at her, assaulting her mind stalled painfully in the back of her dry, raspy throat. Her body stiffened, her hands clenched, and her lashes involuntarily trembled closed as she took a deep breath. "What I'm about to say should answer all your questions, should explain to you why I've been acting so strange lately."

"Who let Willow play with those wily time travel spells again? Tell me I'm wrong – no, really, please tell me I'm wrong, because, unless it's just me, and I don't think it is, it's really starting to feel like a year and a half ago around here again, and that really wasn't a very good time for me. You know, there was that whole unemployment issue, living in my parents' basement, and it wasn't the best hair situation for me either. Oh, and let's not forget all the fun we had patrolling while Buffy was knocked up back then, too."

"Xander, please," she pleaded with him desperately. "I know you're just trying to..." Giving up on polite, she simply went for the truth. "Look, I can't handle your jokes right now, okay? This is serious."

"It's not that we don't get that, Buffy, because we do," Willow reassured her. "It's just that... the last time you sounded so... so... hopeless, you dropped knowledge on us that pretty much changed our entire world... forever. Sure, knowledge was better than a bomb, physically, but, when the dust cleared, there was just as much of a mess to clean up."

She was right. They were both right. Both her actions and her words were reminiscent of the past, but it wasn't a year and a half ago, no matter how much she wanted it to be. So much had happened since then, so many things that couldn't be taken back, couldn't be forgotten, couldn't be ignored. They were wrong to jump to conclusions, and there was a distant, hollow part of her that felt hurt that they would think so little of her, that they believed she had not learned anything from her past and had repeated old actions once more. But she couldn't blame them. The moment was too familiar, the words out of her mouth too hauntingly similar.

_"Guys, there's something I have to tell you, something important. What I'm about to say should answer all your questions, should explain to you why I've been acting so strange lately."_

__

Although she knew everybody to be listening, she also knew her friends. Because they led such busy lives, they would often only pay partial attention to her during Scooby meetings, especially towards the beginning of the gatherings, choosing instead of focus the majority of their energies upon their own personal, private issues. Anya would contemplate sex; Xander would rue the day he ever agreed to move back into his parents house and pay them rent to live in the basement. Willow was still readjusting and mourning over the loss of Oz, and Giles was rather distant, too preoccupied with whatever it was he did all day to keep himself busy. And then there was her mother, too. Usually, Joyce wasn't included in their everyday meetings, but this particular gathering wasn't about slaying or the latest monster in town; this was something else entirely... they just didn't know it yet.

Within moments, the others settled down, the previous calm transcending into utter silence as they realized quickly just how important whatever it was Buffy was about to say was. She appreciated their rapt and eager attention, but, at the same time, she hated the spotlight she suddenly found herself self-thrust under. However, she refused to back down. Rather than meet everyone's gaze, though, she decided to stare at one person in particular, hoping their strength and fastidiousness would somehow be transferred to her.

_At first, she was going to look at Anya, but then, remembering the ex-demon's penchant for __saying the very worst thing at _her – Anya's – _most inconvenient time, she thought otherwise. Xander was out of the question, for, whenever it came to her personal life, he was always rather defensive, no matter what. Supportive, understanding Willow was hurting too much to shoulder her pain as well, and Buffy was too afraid of her mother's disappointment to glance in her parent's direction. That left Giles which only seemed fitting given the fact that, besides her, his life was about to be impacted the most by what she had to say._

__

Finally deciding it was time, the slayer simply took a deep breath and plunged in, no warning, no preamble, no lead-up. "I'm pregnant."

If it had been quiet before her announcement, it was like the world had ceased to exist for several seconds afterwards until the stillness was interrupted by laughter from Xander and Anya's protestations that it better not be Xander's child. However, when she didn't immediately join in on the joke and respond in kind, her friend ceased his chuckling. It was Giles who spoke up first.

"While we're all a little tense these days, Buffy, with all the changes our lives have seen in the past six months and Spike recently being neutralized by the Initiative, I'm afraid I don't find that joke particularly funny."

"Yeah, Buffy," Willow joined in, grinning lopsidedly. It was obvious that such a gesture took a supreme amount of effort upon the redhead's behalf. "That's more doom and gloom than kicks and giggles."

"Well, it's not kicking yet, but give it a few more months and..."

"You're serious about this, aren't you," her mother interrupted.

She was prepared for this. She knew the questions they were going to ask, and, though she didn't actually have the real answers for them, Buffy had lies ready that she knew they would believe. Although it was dangerous for her to cover up the truth because she was the slayer, it was because she was the slayer that she couldn't let them know the true confusion behind her pregnancy. If they found out that she was unsure or, at least, in doubt of her own knowledge given the conception of her child, they would push her for information. They would want to run tests on both her and her baby, and that was something Buffy couldn't allow. While she in no way shape or form was prepared for or particularly craving a bout of motherhood, it was her baby, and, just like with everyone else, she would protect it with her life. More so, in fact, because, unlike with anybody else, her child wouldn't leave her.

Sitting up slightly straighter, she squared her shoulders and launched into the speech she had prepared. "It was a one night stand. Typical irresponsible college freshman behavior: I went to a party, had a little too much to drink, and, a month and half later, surprise! Get a nest ready, because the stork's on its way."

Eliminating some of her own self-inflicted condemnation, Buffy continued. "I only knew the guy's first name, and he left town. Quit school or transferred, I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter, because I'm not contacting him. Obviously, this pregnancy wasn't planned, and I don't need some guy I don't know being forced to either be with me or help me raise a child that he didn't ask for. Besides, he'd be pretty impossible to find now."

_"As for school, obviously, I'm not going back when the spring semester starts next week. I've already connected the school, withdrawn, and they're processing my refund as we speak. For now, I'm getting a job. I need income, and health insurance, and a way to support myself and my baby. With a high school diploma and less than Willow-like grades, I don't have many options, but I've already started looking, and I've made some calls, and I'm pretty sure I have a job already lined up. It's nothing glamorous, and I'm sure I'll hate it and complain about to you guys all the __time, but it'll work well with my due date and after the baby's born. And, if I start now, I'll have enough time in that my insurance will take effect before I have to go on maternity leave."_

__

She had been talking so fast that she didn't spare any time to take a breath. Despite slayer lungs, though, Buffy was forced to pause before she pressed on. "Then there's slaying. Obviously, I won't be able to fend for myself in a few months, but, luckily, there is The Initiative to pick up the slack. Plus, I'm counting on you guys to help me as much as possible. I know you're busy with school, Wills, and, well, I'm not sure what exactly the rest of you do all day," she remarked candidly towards her former watcher, Xander, and his girlfriend, "but I'm sure you're hopping all over town."

Speaking up, Anya said, "it is not appreciated when you talk about bunnies. They're malicious, and evil, and they have more sex than Xander and I do."

Snidely, Willow remarked, "well, let's kill them all for their winning libido then."

Knowing where the conversation was going to turn next, Buffy decided to preempt it. "If you say one word about my sex life right now, Xander, you'll be wishing that you were a vampire so I could just dust you."

"This really isn't an elaborate joke, is it," Giles queried, removing his glasses to haphazardly, habitually clean his lenses.

"The last time I checked, G-man, April Fool's Day was still in April."

"You're really are with child."

Regarding her former watcher, Buffy simply stated, "I am." So far, everyone had said something since she explained the situation, even if it was a joke or an off the wall comment, everyone except her mother, and she needed to know what her only remaining parent thought, what she felt – both about her and about the fact that, in a few months, she would be making her a young grandmother, several years earlier than either she or Joyce had planned. "Mom?"

"Buffy, I... I don't know what to say. I think I'm still processing, I don't know. It's a shock, that's for sure, and I don't think I have to tell that I'm disappointed. I'm sure you've figured that our for yourself already." Dropping her head into her hands, Joyce added, "but, at the same time, you've obviously thought this through already. You have a plan for just about everything."

"Ah, isn't there one thing you're forgetting," Willow suggested.

Mentally running through her checklist, Buffy reassured herself that she had not, in fact, skipped over something important. She had covered the lie about the father, she went into her plans to support and take care of herself and her child, and she had even handled the whole slaying obligation. What else could there possibly be that she needed to...

"Riley," her best friend finally helped her. "During this whole... thing, you haven't mentioned your new boyfriend once. What are you going to tell him? Are you going to try to work through the fact that you're having another man's baby? Do you want to break up? Then there's the fact that you're pretty much taking his and the other Initiative guys' for granted, assuming they'll want to help you with your slaying even after they find out about the pregnancy. There's just... you forgot about Riley."

Riley was long gone now, just like so many others. Anya, Olivia, Oz who came back briefly only for Willow to tell him that she couldn't work on their relationship when Buffy needed her so much, Tara, and then there were all the potential friends and lovers scared away by the idea of being with someone connected to the slayer, connected to a single mother who couldn't manage her own life and responsibilities without the help of her friends.

Choking back a sob of apology, Buffy refocused upon the task at hand. "I wish that I was pregnant this time. I wish that I had messed up again and got myself into another bind, no matter how selfish such an idea might be. You guys certainly don't deserve such a thing to happen to you, but I'm not sure this is something that I can survive. Before I tell you more, though, I just want to apologize for everything."

"Buffy, you don't have to do that," Willow tried to reassure her, but she wouldn't allow the redhead to comfort her, not now, not yet.

"Yes, I do. I need to tell you how sorry I am for driving away all the people you guys have loved, for interfering with and interrupting your guys' lives. You all have sacrificed so much for me and have gotten nothing in return. You've given up opportunities and chances to better yourself, you've made decisions based upon what is best for me and not yourselves, and you've all aged far faster than you should have. And I'm not talking about your looks or even your minds, but emotionally I've scarred all of you; I've made your hearts far older and far more hardened than they should be, because I needed your help, and, for that, though I can't regret the reason why I needed you so much, I'm sorry."

Wiping away a few stray tears, Buffy licked her suddenly dry lips before pressing on. "And it's only going to get worse - much, much worse. I'm going to take up more of your time, need more of your help, and I'm going to put you all through the kind of heartbreak no person should ever have to experience." Finally, after holding in her sobs of desperation and grief for as long as she possibly could, Buffy let go. "She's sick," she wailed miserably, collapsing in on top of herself. Immediately, Giles was at her side, wrapping an arm around her, and Willow and Xander both reached out a hand to hold onto one of her own.

"My baby is sick, and no matter what I do, or we do, or the doctors do, no matter how many demons I fight or how many apocalypses I avert, she's going to die."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: High and Dry**

She was running errands.

It was such a simple task. Drive, stop, make small talk, purchase the necessary things or perform the necessary tasks, and then move on to the next item on her list. She went to the dry cleaners, stopped at the post office to buy more stamps, went to the bank, and, now, she was at the grocery store. It was all very routine, normal, and that's exactly what Buffy needed.

About town, she was just another single mother. Nobody looked at her with pity, with remorse, with misplaced guilt, for no one knew the unconquerable battle she was about to face. Unlike with Willow, Xander, and even Giles, she didn't feel pressured by their concern or put under a microscope by their intense, somewhat intrusive gazes. While she certainly couldn't blame them for looking at her differently, for she did so to herself whenever she had a moment to stop and pause long enough to glance at herself in the mirror, she was, nevertheless, grateful for the anonymity running errands provided her with. And the best part was that her daughter was finally calm and asleep.

Buffy knew that children sensed stress and tension within the adults who took care of them. For a week after Xander and Anya broke up, he wasn't capable of holding the baby without her wailing in distress. Willow knew to shy away from her whenever she was worried about a paper or disappointed over an exam score, and Giles was always scarce when the date was close to a holiday sale at the shop or during tax time. As for her... well, she had learned within the first days of motherhood that, when she was taking care of her daughter, nothing from the outside world that was bothering her could penetrate her mood. She had to push aside all her issues, ignore any squabbles she might be having in her personal life, and work was to be left at work.

And this plan had succeeded up until the last few days. Despite her worry, she had even been able to shove away her concern while waiting for the test results the previous weeks, assuaging her fear with hope and optimism, but, now that she knew the truth, now that those hopes were dashed, there was no hiding, no denying what she was feeling. It was raw and angry, primal, bold and tenacious, and her daughter felt every single ounce of it. She could sense the myriad of emotions swirling throughout her mother – the disappointment in herself and the world, the irrational jealousy towards every other parent who didn't have to face her current fear, the bitterness and rage, the desperation, and those emotions and so many others manifested themselves within her daughter as well. She was constantly on edge, crying, and it had seemed as though there was nothing Buffy could do to sooth her.

But, now, she was quiet. Lolled by the constant, rhythmic movement of the car as they drove about town, her little girl had finally fallen into a contented sleep, giving Buffy both a temporary ceasefire and some relief. It was much needed for the slayer... and her nerves, both of which craved the chance to regroup. And it also gave her daughter some well deserved rest, too. So, determined to keep her calm for as long as possible, Buffy went to the grocery store.

Usually, she didn't take her little girl shopping with her. It was quicker and easier not to have to tote the baby to the store, load her seat into the cart, and somehow manage to fit all the things they needed around all the various accoutrements that made up her daughter's inanimate entourage of accessories, but, even if it meant having to push one cart through the store and pull another, Buffy was going to see the errand through. Not only did she find the simple task comforting, but, as long as her daughter was resting quietly, she would prolong their trip about town for as long as possible. It was a telltale sign how exhausted her baby was that she didn't wake while Buffy transferred her from the car seat to the grocery cart, making her even more aware of just how important it was that she get a rein upon her emotions and soon.

No matter what, her daughter couldn't be effected negatively by Buffy's reaction to her disease. She was already suffering enough. She didn't deserve the burden of her mother's insecurities and problems as well. Returning to normal activities, everyday life – and that included running errands and going to work, cooking dinner and squabbling with her friends over whose turn it was to take out the trash – was essential. The rest of the world didn't stop simply because her world had been given an estimated time of survival, no matter how unfair such an oversight may have been.

So, Buffy shopped. She chose fresh fruit and vegetables, ordered lunch meat, and tossed enough canned goods in her cart to stock their cupboards for a month. She nodded and said hello to those she knew, and she smiled kindly to those she didn't. When people would stop her to whisper adoring words about her daughter, she would just agree with them, thank them, and ignore the aching wound inside her chest that demanded every single person should know of and experience the same pain she was where her little girl was concerned. But she held back. She didn't share with them her grief. She kept it private, personal, hidden away behind a mask of stoicism and the emotional conformity that society deemed correct for polite company.

It was while she was in the baby aisle – her most costly and most often visited section of the grocery store – that she felt a set of eyes upon her which were more friendly, more curious than those which belonged to the usual casual conversationalist. Immediately, Buffy sensed that it was a male. Even with her back turned towards him and his DNA obviously of the human variety, her slayer skills sensed his presence. He stood closer than a woman in his position would, an obvious sign of awareness and attraction, and she could smell his interest in her even against the strong, lingering odor of industrial strength cleaning solution.

Though she wasn't vain, Buffy also wasn't naïve. She knew that she was an attractive woman, that motherhood had been kind to her young body. Other than her enhanced curves, she was still the petite and taunt girl of her youth, her body lithe and graceful from years of vigorous exercise in the style of training and slaying. Men found her appealing. It was not an odd occurrence for her to be noticed or checked out, even when she was dressed as casually as she was that early afternoon. What was odd, though, was that the man knew she was mother, as evidenced by her daughter's presence, and that he wasn't running away, screaming in the opposite direction. Now, that was a rarity... as in it had never happened before.

Turning around, her curiosity piqued, Buffy decided to test the man, to find out what it was that he wanted and how serious he was about getting it. Grinning in his direction, she spoke, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her sleeping child. "Can I help you with something? You seem a little... lost."

"Definitely not lost," the stranger answered, nodding towards his own cart which housed a very awake and very happy gurgling baby. Though completely bald, it was obvious the child was a boy given his clothing and car seat design. "If they'd let us, I'm pretty sure we'd move into this aisle. In fact, I'm thinking about having a satellite dish installed and my mail delivered here, because we spend more time pondering jars of baby food than we do eating it at home."

She laughed good-naturedly, observing his chivalrous attempt at humor. "Then what's with all the attention? If you're not careful, you'll give a girl a complex, make her think that her hair's on fire or she has a 'Kick Me' sign stuck to her back."

"Nothing like that."

"Like what then?"

He moved his cart closer to hers then, positioning it so that they were standing side by side in the aisle, practically taking up the entire space. No one would be able to pass by them. Instead of answering her, though, he asked his own question. "Why do you do that," the stranger nodded towards her ever-moving cart.

To keep her daughter calm, Buffy rocked the cart back and forth even when she herself was standing still. The movement helped to sooth her baby. Although she had never asked the doctor if she was right... for obvious reasons, Buffy believed that her daughter liked constant movement because of how active she herself had been during her pregnancy. Even during those nine months, she had slept less than other normal, non-pregnant women, and, because of the slaying, her daughter had been born, running a likely chance of being a martial arts master someday. Buffy had a suspicion that being stationary for too long simply felt unnatural to her little girl. It was just one similarity between them that was already making its presence known.

"She's always been an active baby, danced inside me for nine months, and, now, she's still happier if she's moving."

"That could be a bad habit to form," he warned, but she didn't take offense to his advice, for his tone was simply teasing and not preaching.

Buffy shrugged. "It works for us. Anyway, Captain Avoidance, you still haven't answered my question from before. Do I have a hideous growth on my neck that I'm unaware of?"

"Oh, you mean that wart isn't supposed to be there," the stranger joked. Chuckling when her hand automatically flew to the bare skin at the back of her head, he added, "I thought that was just a part of the whole charming package."

"No, sorry, but I do come with a lovely bonus gift of paranoia and vanity."

Breaking the moment, the man reached for a box of baby cereal, fumbling with it awkwardly as he stumbled through his explanation. "About before... about staring at you, really, it was nothing. I just... you don't see many parents in the store at this time of day, but it was a nice surprise. _You_ were a nice surprise."

"Well, single mother here who works second shift so that her kid doesn't have to go to daycare, so that _I_ don't have to pay for daycare."

"I know."

"Excuse me," Buffy queried, needing to know exactly what the man knew about her. Surely, if he was a stalker, he would have been more stealth, and, if not, if he was obtuse enough to confront her in public, she'd make sure that he never followed around another person for the rest of...

"I didn't mean... I just..." Blowing out a nervous breath, the stranger said, "I meant that I knew you were single," he explained, blushing. It didn't take long, though, for the timidity to disappear and the cute, boyish, flirtatious charm to reappear. Smiling, he added, "no ring."

And, just like that, she was immediately taken back to another cute, boyish, flirtatious charmer and the smile he used to offer her so freely.

_They had ordered their drinks at the counter before going to find a table. "Here, let me get that for you," Riley offered, grinning down upon her as he pulled out her chair. Taking the seat across from her, still smiling, he nodded towards her beverage of choice that evening. "Green tea, huh? I never thought I'd see the day where Buffy Summers worried about her health."_

__

"You and me both," she commented, sounding somewhat perturbed. Already, she was missing coffee... and caffeine. "Didn't really think I'd live long enough to become this boring, but life is just full of surprises, isn't it?"

_"Hey, you shouldn't talk like that, about dying, I mean, and it's a good thing that life can still surprise you. I mean, you're young. It should. I know you surprise me all the time."  
__  
She chose to ignore his chastisement, his advice, and, instead, focused upon his admission of enjoying her unpredictable nature. "You like that about me, I hope."_

__

"It's one of my favorite things about you."

"Well, that's good, because there's something I need to tell you, Riley."

Startling her, he reached across the table to hold her hand. Though she was uncomfortable with the gesture, Buffy wasn't sure why. She liked Riley. He was a sweet, nice guy who treated her well. He was safe, and dependable, and they were well on their way to sharing a healthy relationship, but that evening, sitting there together, his touch felt all kinds of wrong. Maybe it was because of the secret she was about to share with him or perhaps it was because of the truth of that secret that she harbored so carefully to herself, but, whatever the reason, she pulled her hand away from his, pretending that she needed it to lift her cup of tea.

"Before you say anything, I just want to let you know how happy I was to hear from you today. I know the beginning of a new semester can be crazy, really hectic and everything, especially for you, but I missed you," he told her sincerely, making what she was about to tell him even harder to say. "I don't ever want to go so long without seeing you again."

_Under her breath, the slayer grumbled, "yeah, we'll see if you still feel that way _after_ I pull the relationship rug out from underneath you."_

__

"Did you say something?"

"Nothing important," she reassured him. Taking a deep breath, Buffy decided to simply plunge right in. Shrugging her shoulders, she admitted, "you haven't seen me at school, because I dropped out. I'm kind of pregnant."

"As in paused, your life's at an awkward standstill?"

She could hear the disbelief in his voice, both the denial of the truth and hope that what she was saying was some kind of cruel joke or misunderstanding. Though she didn't want to hurt him, Buffy knew such a reaction from Riley was inevitable, and she just hoped that, down the road, he'd look back upon their situation and appreciate the fact that she was upfront with him... or, at least, as upfront as she possibly could be. "No, I'm going to have a baby."

Sounding completely crestfallen, he sighed. "Oh." After several moments of silence between them, Riley said, "unless there's some new puritanical way of procreating by holding hands or hugging, then I know it's not mine."

"There isn't, and it's not."

Fidgeting, he reached for his coffee, lifting it to his mouth before realizing he didn't really want a drink and setting it back down further away from him than before. "So, then, this happened a while ago, right, before you and I started to... spend time together, and you just didn't realize that you were pregnant, because you're busy, or usually irregular, or absentminded."

Stubbornly, she refuted, "I'm not absentminded."

_"Seems like you might be, considering the fact that you must be like four months pregnant and just now realizing it, not to mention the fact that, in order to get yourself knocked up, you must have had unprotected sex or forgot to take your pill," he bit out harshly. Obviously, his bitterness was starting to surface, and he still had no idea just what she was admitting to.  
__  
"Actually, I'm only a couple months along."_

__

"A couple implies two, Buffy."

Not able to help herself, a glimmer of her sarcasm shot out. "Excellent math skills there, Agent Finn. You get an 'A' for the day. Want a cookie?"

Lowering his voice to an accusing whisper, Riley challenged, "do you realize what you're admitting to?"

_"Look, I'm sorry, okay." Sighing, Buffy shrugged her shoulders. "There's nothing that I can say to make this better, to make this up to you, and you have every right to be mad. We were spending time together, working our way towards going out, and I slept with somebody else. It was just a one night thing, and they're not even in Sunnydale anymore, but, now, I'm pregnant, and I'm keeping it, so yell at me, hate me, but don't talk down to me. I know I screwed up; I screwed _us_ up."_

__

"Yeah, literally," Riley snapped. Unwilling to put up with such debasing comments, Buffy stood to leave only to pause when Riley shot a hand out to grab her wrist. "I shouldn't have said that," he said by way of apology. "Please, sit back down. I have some questions... if you wouldn't mind answering them."

"I don't."

"What are your... Buffy, you're not ready to be a parent. How are you going to do this when you can't even manage to balance school and... well, you know."

"It's okay to say it, Riley." Rolling her eyes, she said it for him. "Slaying. I slay. As for managing my life, thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Well, you are eighteen and pregnant."

"Again with the judgment," she glared at him. "You're not my father." Seeing that he was about to pounce unto that piece of live bait, Buffy prevented him from doing so by changing the topic. "Look, I'm already more interested in my kid than I ever was in Psych or any other of my classes last semester, so, in my book, that's a good start. As for patrolling, from everything I've read, women can continue their usual exercise habits throughout their pregnancy as long as they don't experience any complications, so there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to keep dusting vamps right up until I give birth. Plus, I've been brushing up on my crossbow skills, so, hopefully, I'll be able to see and slay my prey before they even get a chance to get too close, and someone, either Willow, or Xander, or Giles and, in all likelihood, probably the whole gang will always be with me just in case. I have this figured out. I know what I'm doing. In fact," she added, needing to prove her words to be true, "I already have a pretty decent job lined up, too. I can do this. You'll see."

"And me?"

Confused, she asked, "what about you?"

"Where do I fit into this plan of yours?"

"Oh," Buffy commented softly, taken back. Twisting her fingers together, she admitted, "well, you sort of... don't."

_"That's what I thought," Riley bit out harshly.  
__  
"It's just that I didn't think you'd really want to play daddy to a kid that isn't yours, and we're not really even a couple yet. We've gone out on a few dates but nothing official, and, honestly, I don't think I want to be in a relationship right now; I don't think I could handle it."_

__

"No, I get it," he assured her. "I think I just needed to hear you say it, though."

"I know this is me being greedy, but I hope that you and your guys continue to patrol, that we can still work together when it's necessary. Trust me, the Hellmouth is big enough for the both of us."

"If you thought that I would allow my personal life to influence or dictate my professional..."

"That's not what I meant, Riley," she interrupted. "I just don't want things to be awkward if we ever meet up on patrol one night

"As long as you act like the slayer, I'll act like the solider I am, and things will be fine." Nodding to agree with him, Buffy watched as he stood to leave. "You know, when I first realized that I had feelings for you, I knew you were a risk – emotionally, but, until tonight, I never knew just how big of one you were, Buffy." Backing a step away from the table, he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Good luck... I guess. If nothing else, I hope your baby's healthy. See you around."

That evening had been the last time she had ever seen Riley Finn smile. In fact, despite his objections to her concerns and her reassurances that the Hellmouth was evil enough for the both of them, he and The Initiative had left Sunnydale just a few shorts months after she discovered she was pregnant. What had caused the abrupt halt to their operations, Buffy had never found out, but she had heard rumblings of discontent among the soldiers, a conspiracy involving those in charge, and that the government had pulled the program's funding. Their lack of presence, though, only seemed to alleviate some of the negative energy swirling around town, something that had alerted her slayer senses to the fact that The Initiative hadn't exactly been what it was promised to be.

If nothing else, though, Riley Finn had been a valuable lesson for Buffy. Whether intentionally or not, she had hurt him and hurt him deeply. Looking back, she now knew that it had been too soon for her to attempt a relationship that was anything more than casual dating. True, they had never quite gotten off the ground romantically, but there had been intentions to do so before she found out that she was expecting. She also realized that, no matter what, she simply couldn't date someone who wasn't a part of her world. Scary monsters, bad hours, and messy injuries were inevitable, and she needed someone who could not only handle themselves under such conditions but someone who wouldn't resent her for such complications years down the road. Normal men were simply too big of a risk, one that she couldn't take, both for herself and for the rest of the world, including the normal men in question.

So, she didn't date... not that there were many guys beating down her door for a chance to go out with a strange, single mother. Whether it was right or not, having her daughter made it easier for Buffy to escape romantic attention and prodding from her friends to socialize more. And, frankly, she had no interest in seeing anyone anyway. Not only was she extremely busy between motherhood, work, and slaying, but her heart simply wasn't available for the giving. Years later, it was still very much taken and buried under so many layers of hurt, mistrust, love, fear, and loyalty that it would have been impossible to dig it back out and brush it off. It was nice, however, to have her vanity validated every once in a while.

With that in mind, she went about gently letting the stranger before her down. "Sorry, but I'm actually not available, haven't been for years now." Shrugging her shoulders, Buffy admitted, "I know this sounds lame, but I actually lost my ring. It's... complicated."

"My life's complicated, too," the man told her, refusing to allow her to brush him off so easily, "but that doesn't mean that I stop living. I still date, make new friends..."

"No, really, you have no idea how complicated my life is." Pushing her cart further down the aisle and away from the stranger, Buffy whispered, "no one does."

Finished with her shopping or not, it was time to check out and go home, for she no longer felt like a normal woman running errands. The novelty had worn off, the respite from her life was over, and reality had come crashing back down upon her with a vengeance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Sleeping Lessons**

Slayers were light, restless sleepers. Blame it on the prophetic dreams, if you wanted, but thousands of people around the world suffered from extremely vivid and terrifying nightmares, and they still managed to catch more than just a couple hours of rest per night, and there certainly weren't thousands of slayers populating the globe. If only.

Rather, Buffy blamed her lack of REM upon her instincts. Always geared to detect even the slightest disturbance in the air, she was remarkably conscious even while sleeping. If a car drove past, she heard it. If someone got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, she could decipher who it was simply by listening to the tread of their feet against the carpeted hallway floor. And, if her daughter even so much as sneezed in her crib, Buffy was awake instantly, ready for battle.

It wasn't fair, though, like so many other things associated with her non-profit, not quite so volunteer, full-time position. If anybody out there deserved some rejuvenating rest, surely it would be the woman who had the fate of the world resting solely upon her capable yet already overloaded shoulders. Was it too much to ask for five hours of peace, and quiet, and mental unconsciousness a night? She needed a break, too, especially from the monsters who went boo in the night, but, apparently, that concession had never occurred to the tribal elders when they set to magicking the first slayer up. Big surprise there, though, considering the fact that they were men. The powers should never have allowed a bunch of guys to design a _female _warrior.

But, really, it was just par for the course. If she wasn't allowed to have a social life, friends, get married, have kids, and grow old, especially considering the fact that most slayers didn't even make it out of their teens, it shouldn't have been too shocking that the movement of dust motes had the capability to rouse her from a particularly needed nap. Now, granted, she had somehow managed to circumvent several of the slayer no-no's, for she had Willow and Xander, she had her daughter, and she was currently starting to live in her third decade, but, evidently, she still wasn't impressive enough as a slayer to figure out how to get a proper night's sleep.

And that evening was no different.

Ricocheting up in bed, Buffy took a deep breath as she acclimated herself to her surroundings once again. Something - something new but definitely not shiny – was happening. The only problem was, though, that she didn't recognize the threat. No one was breaking into the house, she didn't _feel _anything supernatural in play, and she herself felt perfectly healthy if not exhausted. Throwing her slayer senses out around her, Buffy waited for something, for some sort of sign to tell her what she needed to do next. She calmed her breathing, stilling it almost completely so she could focus on the sounds of the night, and sat as stiff as a statue. Within seconds, she was tossing aside the covers and sprinting for her daughter's room.

After her mother passed away, she moved her own things into the master bedroom, mainly for the benefit of being closer to the nursery. Willow, then, took Buffy's old room for herself, freeing up the smallest bedroom for the baby, while Xander quickly remodeled the attic, making it a livable space if not a veritable bachelor pad. Both due in fact to proximity and her slayer speed, Buffy was at her daughter's side in moments.

She was too scared to fully comprehend what she was witnessing, too in denial to admit the facts even to herself at first, so, instead, she simply moved on autopilot, rolling her baby girl to her side so as to make sure that she didn't choke to death. Soothingly, she rubbed her daughter's back, occasionally lifting a hand to smooth her downy, feather soft hair, wanting to reassure her of her presence but also careful not to disturb her further. It was too late to call for help, so all Buffy could do was wish, and hope, and pray, and bargain for her daughter's life, demanding that she be spared, that she wouldn't be taken from her that evening.

Eventually, the seizing stopped, and the slayer could, once more, breathe naturally. She no longer had to coach herself into inhaling and exhaling what felt and tasted like stale, unclean air. Every lungful as her daughter had been caught in the throes of her first yet terrifyingly powerful seizure had burned, had tormented Buffy, because, if her little girl didn't survive, what would be the purpose of Buffy living, of Buffy making the effort to breathe? The only thing she knew for certain was that she was not going to leave her daughter alone again at night. For the rest of that particular evening, she would stay in the nursery with her, and, first thing the next morning, she was moving her little girl's things into her own room.

Picking her weak and exhausted baby up out of her crib, Buffy carried her over to the rocker. Sitting down with her, the two of them were washed milky clean by the almost incandescent light of the moon shining in through the bedroom window. Though her little girl almost immediately fell asleep, Buffy did not, and she was thankful for the moon's glow as it allowed her to watch her daughter more closely. Barely blinking, she studied the perfect face before her, the little hands that poked out of the soft, fleece sleeper's sleeves, and the pajama covered, chubby legs which would occasionally kick or shift in slumber. Not for the first time, she was thankful for the fact that she slept so lightly. That evening had certainly not been the first time she woke up abruptly during the night, and it definitely wouldn't be the last, but it, so far, was without a doubt the most important.

As she sat there, it was strange, though, which memory Buffy started to recall. True, it was of another night of fitful rest, and, in its own way, she now knew it to be connected to her daughter, but it hadn't been life or death, or frightening, or desperate. However, it had certainly been painful when the slayer realized it was more than just a dream but less than a complete memory and definitely not something that would, in all likelihood, ever be repeated.

_As she came awake, Buffy gasped, one of those thirsty, gloriously decadent and satisfying gasps that a woman only experiences after she's been kissed like never before. Taking in her surroundings, though, Buffy noticed that she was simply in her bedroom. The night was quiet, there were still several hours before dawn, and she was alone without even the lingering scent of a lover to explain her burning desire or the imprint of a departed mate on the pillow beside her. Then again, though, she was pregnant. In fact, she was just starting her second trimester. Hormones were raging, her body was changing, and she had read that a woman's sexual appetite could fluctuate dramatically during pregnancy. The only problem, however, was that she only had one clear memory of ever achieving an orgasm with a man and a handful of shadowy, cryptic flashes that told her of her daughter's mysterious yet still pleasurable conception. But then she remembered her dream._

_Without warning, it all came rushing back to her. She could smell the saltwater mixed with the nostalgic scent of carnival food from the small stands that peppered the pier. The fresh sea breeze tossed her hair aside before caressing and hugging her sun kissed face. Beneath her palms, the weather roughened wood of the boardwalk came in contrasting contact with the softness of her sweater, creating a contradiction in sensations so much like her own deceptive appearance. And, even with her eyes closed, she could sense the joy that surrounded her there, could practically taste it rolling upon her just like the waves from the ocean below. It was peaceful, the scene before and surrounding her, but, as she felt him step out of the shadows behind her, it faded and dimmed in comparison to his presence._

_Since the very first time they met, it had always been like that. At first, after she discovered his true nature, Buffy had assumed her constant awareness of his presence was simply another nifty part of her slayer package, but, now, she knew differently. It wasn't the fact that Angel was a vampire that aroused her senses whenever he was near; she always felt him because he was Angel. No other vampire, no matter how powerful they were, ever caught her attention so easily or so powerfully. Standing there, though, that afternoon, Buffy finally realized why Angel had such a charm upon her._

_She could sense him so easily, because, whenever they were near each other, he was always entirely focused upon her. Without turning around, she knew that his gaze tracked her every infinitesimal movement, that he was listening for her heartbeat, that he was smelling the air for her scent, that his mouth was remembering her taste from hundreds of kisses in the past, and that his hands were already reaching for her, needing her, wanting her just as she always, even if only figuratively, was reaching for, needing, and wanting him. In fact, her draw to Angel was so strong, so overpowering that, temporarily, Buffy forgot that she was standing in the bright, warm, killing California sunlight, and, by the time she did recall that fact, it was too late. She was already in Angel's arms. He was kissing her. She was kissing him. They were kissing each other._

_Instead of Angel, though, it was time that was incinerated by the sun. While it disintegrated away, leaving them in a blissful state of unawareness, they kissed on. Desperate for each other, practically starving for the other's taste and touch, for it had been so long – too long since they had been as close, neither Buffy nor Angel was willing to pull away from the other until it became absolutely necessary, and, even then, they remained physically near – their bodies melded together, their hands re-memorizing each other's forms, their mouths constantly re-seeking the other's. If it would have been possible, Buffy would have froze the moment in time, stopping everything so she could live it over and over and over again, but then her fingers moved silently across Angel's chest, enjoying the sensation of his cool shirt as she slid her digits over it, and that's when she felt his heart beat and knew the moments, as time marched on between them, would only get better and better._

_But that's where the dream ended. She woke up, breathless and aroused, aware of what had happened next between them because of the child growing inside of her but confused by how and incapable of remembering anything more. Forlornly, Buffy slid back down her bed, burying herself inside the protective cocoon of her blankets once more, and, for what wasn't the first time and what surely would not be the last time, she cried herself to sleep over the only man she had ever and would ever love._

"Even then, though, I knew it to be real, that it wasn't just some fantasy I cooked up one night because I missed him and was lonely," she confided in a whisper to her daughter. Smiling wistfully, Buffy added, "I like to think of it as maternal instinct. I mean, I was pregnant at the time. In fact, there's a part of me that believes all those dreams I had that winter were from you trying to send your clueless mommy some messages. Now, granted, it is kind of creepy that, given that I'm right, you know more about your conception than I do, but beggars can't be choosers, and, at this point, even my paper cup is worn out from all my panhandling.

"Back to my point – my maternal instinct, that's how I knew that you were a beautiful, 100% grade-A human baby, that's how I knew that there was something wrong with you other than the usual baby kinks, that's how I figured out that you needed me tonight, and that's how I knew that..."

She stopped herself there. While she could think about him, even say his name in her mind, Buffy still couldn't talk about Angel out loud, not even to her daughter. Some things were still simply too painful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Somewhere a Clock is Ticking**

"She had a seizure?"

"Last night," Buffy answered immediately, her voice laden with stress and duller, thinner than usual because of it.

As she spoke with Doctor Welby, she painfully twisted her fingers together. Sensation was good. Sensation meant that she wasn't stuck in a perpetual nightmare, that the events unfolding themselves around her were real, and, though she didn't particularly want to face the events, it was better for her daughter that she did instead of hiding from them. Pain had always motivated her into action in the past. The present proved no different.

"I was sleeping, and something woke me up. It was like I just knew that there was something wrong with her. By the time I ran into her room, she was already seizing, so I rolled her over, made sure she didn't choke, and then stayed up with her all night. I waited to call this morning, because I knew there was nothing the emergency room could have really done for her besides run a bunch of tests that you already have, and I wasn't going to put her through unnecessary suffering."

"No, you did exactly what I would have wanted you to do." Pushing the file before her aside, her daughter's physician appraised Buffy silently before speaking again. "I'm not going to lie to you, and I'm not going to sugarcoat things either. What we're about to face together with your little girl is going to be the worst, most excruciating experience of your life. Whatever you're prepared for, it's going to be ten times worse."

"I appreciate that, but I'm stronger and more realistic than I seem."

"Being a single mother, I'm sure you are."

"Please, Doctor Welby, just tell me what this means, the seizure," Buffy pleaded. She knew that watching her daughter die slowly and painfully was going to torment her as well. If she could take the pain onto herself, she would without a second thought, but she couldn't. All she could do was be there, be strong and supportive, and love her daughter up until the moment where her only child took her final, difficult breath.

"First, considering how much time we're going to be spending together in the upcoming months, you should probably call me Colleen." Nodding her head once to show acquiescence to the doctor's request, the slayer simply waited for the physician to continue talking. "As for the seizure, though I had hoped this symptom wouldn't present itself this early, it is common with your daughter's disease. Luckily, we can put her on anti-seizure medication. It won't prevent them entirely, and it certainly won't prevent the disease from progressing further, but it'll help ease her suffering, keep her safer longer. However, I must warn you that not all symptoms that present will be this easy to deal with. There will come a time when modern medicine will stop being useful, when the only thing we'll be able to do is keep your little girl as comfortable as possible."

"But that's down the line quite a bit, right, maybe even years?"

"No case is the same," Colleen informed her. "That's what makes this disease so difficult to study, to fight. Each case presents itself uniquely; each case presents slightly different symptoms, progresses at a different rate. Your daughter's case will be no different, but, as we continue to monitor her, we should be able to spot new symptoms early, start mapping her condition's progress in order to be better prepared for any and all new developments." With a slight quirk of her mouth, the doctor said, "hence the reason why you'll be seeing me so often and why you should call me by my first name."

The gesture wasn't meant to be lighthearted or even flippant, just reassuring, kind, generous, and it made Buffy feel somewhat comforted. No matter what, she knew the woman before her to be on her side. Though she certainly wouldn't consider Colleen Welby a friend, the slayer knew that she was well on her way to trusting the specialist, a first in her history with doctors, and such faith couldn't have come at a better or more opportune time. If nothing else, the fact that she felt comfortable around the physician should transfer, she hoped, to her daughter, making her little girl's fight just that much more safe and secure for her.

"This is also a good segue into something else that I've been meaning to discuss with you." Pausing for a moment, the doctor seemed to wait for some acknowledgment from Buffy before she continued, but she was too numb to offer one, so, after several awkward, silent moments, Colleen simply pushed forward anyway. "Because of how unpredictable this disease is, many parents find it helpful to join support groups. The only people in the world who can understand what you're going through, Buffy, are other parents who have children with this same disease. The support group members meet, share their stories, compare notes, and, when they work together, they're great at raising awareness and research funds. Plus, they seem to gain strength from each other. I know that they could use your help, and I think that you're going to need them as well, especially considering how, once again, you came alone. Buffy, I can't stress to you enough how important it is to have a support system behind you as you go through this with your daughter. Friends, family, they're essential; they are what will get you through..."

"I told my family."

"Oh," Doctor Welby breathed out. Her surprise was evident. "That's good."

"They were stunned, and they cried, and I was nearly crushed underneath all their pity, both for me and my daughter and for themselves."

"So, you didn't tell them about the seizure," Colleen realized.

"No, not yet," she answered. "Just hearing that my little girl is going to die nearly destroyed them. They're strong, the strongest people I've ever known, but they're not ready to deal with this yet. Hell, I'm not either, but I have to. They don't, at least not right away. If I can spare them a few months, even a few days, carry the burden alone during that time while they adjust, and grieve, and mourn, then I will. It's not the first time I've had to fight something on my own," Buffy shared, "and it won't be the last."

"But they are going to be there for you... eventually?"

Smiling wistfully, the slayer revealed, "they always are."

_She had been out, walking. Lately, Buffy had felt extremely restless. Despite being pregnant, she hated downtime. Resting meant quiet, and quiet meant that she was forced to confront and examine both her thoughts and her fears. And they were all about _him_. Even with a full time job, working as a security guard at the high school, and her slaying responsibilities, Buffy felt as though she had too much time on her hands. Surprisingly, she had already read all the local public library's books on pregnancy, and, though she should have been preparing herself and her body for labor, sleeping as much as possible while she could, she saw too much in her dreams to welcome sleep more than what was necessary. Even spending time with her friends made her uncomfortable._

Their looks were too curious, too pitying, and she could feel their concern and fear towards her as soon as she walked into a room. They wondered if she could handle motherhood, if she would be able to balance taking care of a child, slaying, and actually succeeding as a functioning member of society. They worried about her child, questioning if it was really human like she promised or

_something demonic, something sinister, something sent to her by the Hellmouth intent upon killing them all. And they doubted her explanation as to how she found herself pregnant in the first place, though none of them had the nerve to say so to her face._

No, instead, they all whispered behind her back. At first, Buffy had felt paranoid, like her own insecurities were manifesting themselves into conspiracies about her friends, but then she started to stumble upon half finished conversations and awkward cover-ups, and she knew her instincts to be right. Anya, and Xander, and Giles, and Willow, and even her own mother, they all banded together in their concern. Surprisingly, it wasn't their lack of trust which hurt her the most, for Buffy had to admit that, in their shoes, she would undoubtedly feel the same way, but the fact that they wouldn't confront her with their worries that stung so desperately. There had been a time when she and Willow had told each other everything, when Xander had always gone to her when he had a problem, when Giles had confided in her, and when her mother had always been on her side, no matter what.

So, she adjusted. If they weren't ready to trust her judgment, then she would avoid them, give them time to come to terms with her pregnancy and the changes it had brought forth within her life. She called less meetings, instead choosing to patrol more on her own than she had since she first came to Sunnydale. If her friends and family noticed the shift in behavior, they didn't say anything, but she had the suspicion that they went out on their own to patrol as well. She stopped going to The Bronze, movie night became a thing of the past, and, when she wasn't working, or slaying, or sleeping, Buffy went for walks.

She went to the park and watched the mothers push their kids on the swings. She went to the zoo, ate peanuts, and watched as the mother elephants washed their babies off with water from their trunks. And she window shopped, watching the things she'd love to be able to afford for her child as she passed them by. And, for the first time in her life, she didn't mind the loneliness. In fact, she didn't even feel it. With her child growing inside of her, Buffy no longer felt lonely. No matter what, she was always with someone she loved, and someone who loved her was always there as well.

Pushing open the front door, she had meant to slip inside and run up to her room, but, before she could even step onto the first riser, her mother was calling her name from the living room. Approaching cautiously, hesitantly, Buffy was surprised to see that her mom wasn't alone, that she was sitting with Willow on the couch, and that the two of them looked both guilty and nervous. However, she didn't have to wonder or even guess as to what was on their minds. The luggage in the corner of the room, luggage she recognized from her one partial semester as Willow's roommate, told her everything.

"Sit down, please, Buffy," her mother requested.

"That's okay, but thanks." Joking without any humor in her voice, she said, "it's getting harder and harder for me to get back up. I'll stand." Deciding to cut directly to the chase, she asked, "what's going on?"

"Willow's moving in."

That much she had already gathered, but her mom didn't seem inclined to say more. Obviously, she was just supposed to accept their piece of news, be happy about it, and offer to carry up the lighter of her friend's luggage, but she couldn't do that, at least not before they admitted their reasons.

"Buffy, it's just that... in a few months, you're going to be a mom," Willow explained.

"Yes, I know that, Will. The morning sickness that lasts all day, the swollen feet and ankles, and

_the cantaloupe that I seemed to have swallowed all point in that direction."_

"And, well, we just thought that it might be a good thing to have another set of hands around to help," her mother added. "I don't think you have any idea how many times a day a newborn baby's diaper needs changed."

"An average of seven, a minimum of four, and a max of ten," Buffy replied confidently. "I know it's surprising given my track record and all, but I've done my homework."

The room was so quiet, they could have heard the dust of a slain vampire landing upon the area rug. Finally, it was Willow who broke the silence. "There's also the fact that you've been so distant lately, Buffy. You're sad, and we're not talking my favorite shirt got stained sad or my fish died sad; we're talking Ang..."

Interrupting her, Joyce harshly whispered, "that's enough. We don't need to..." Clearing her own throat harshly, her mom stated, "the point is that we think this will be good for you, for all of us."

They were scared of her, scared of her child, scared of what she might do to them if they said anything, scared of what she might do to herself if they didn't, and scared for themselves, so they devised a plan where Willow would move in – to keep an eye on her, to help, to prevent her from doing anything they would consider rash or wrong. Willow was the closest thing they had to a second powerful weapon, the only defense they had if they had a rogue slayer on their hands, and, with that realization, her hurt and animosity disappeared. They still cared, they still loved her, and, as she recalled the summer she ran away after sending Angel to hell, they had a right to worry about her state of mind. She was acting differently, Angel sad as her best friend had been about to say before Buffy's mother had stopped her, and, given her track record, Angel sad never led to good things.

So, she decided to take it easy on them. "Sounds good," Buffy said, shrugging her shoulders. "I'd offer to help carry things upstairs, but pregnant girl here, and I need to go get ready for work." Bending over, she hugged her friend. "I'm glad you're here, Will," and, with that, she left the room and two shocked, gaping women behind.

Shaking away the memory, Buffy revealed, "they don't always show their support in the traditional sense, but my friends are always there for me. In fact, two of them live with me, and I've been thinking about asking a third – Giles, he's... I guess you would call him my mentor, but he's more like my father figure now that my dad's out of the picture. Anyway, I've been thinking of inviting him to move in with us as well. After last night, the nursery's empty. All it needs is a new coat of paint, and it'll be boy friendly again. With everything that's happening, I figured another pair of hands around the house and another source of income would be a help."

"That sounds like an excellent plan, Buffy," Doctor Welby commented. "However, before you make any changes, I was thinking that it might be prudent for you to consider relocating to a larger area, maybe Los Angeles. I'm here in Sunnydale twice a week, but I spend the rest of my time in LA. It's a larger market, more cases there, and the facilities are better able to treat children like your daughter."

Despite her best intentions, Buffy had been unable to hear anything the doctor had said past the words _Los Angeles_. Los Angeles held too many memories, too much significance, too much meaning. Even if it was better for her daughter, she would drown there emotionally and physically, pulled under by the currents of her own feelings and the dangerous undertows of the past. Besides, logistically...

"My job's here, my family's here, my home is here. More importantly, my daughter's life is here. While L.A. might be better medically, everything in my little girl's life that is familiar to her is here in Sunnydale, and I think, in the long run, that's going to be more important in her fight than the latest piece of medical equipment. And I can always drive her to you in L.A. if I need to. It's only a couple of hours away." Not to mention the fact that she was the slayer and Sunnydale was the capital of the Hellmouth. If she left with her daughter, her little girl stood a very good chance of dying in an apocalypse sooner than she would from the effects of her terminal illness.

"You're right," Colleen said. "Here I am, trying to convince you of how important it is to have a support system behind you, and then I go and suggest you leave that support system behind. I just... I want to make sure that I present you with all of your options, Buffy, no matter what."

"And I appreciate that," she assured the physician. "I really do."

"Well, then, I think that's all for today." After standing, the doctor moved towards the office's closed door. "Let me get that prescription for you, and then you can be on your way. Next time I see you, though, I hope to meet your family."

Vaguely, Buffy answered, "we'll see."

Before anything else, there was one more person she had to break the news to, and, until that task was completed, she couldn't plan the future, plot her next move, or think about anything else. One step at a time...


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: In Every Sunflower**

His old apartment was empty now.

Buffy wasn't sure when Angel's things had been removed, and she had no idea whatever had happened to them. For all she knew, Angel himself had hired someone to pack up his belongings and either put them in storage or deliver them to him in L.A.. On the other hand, the owner of the building might have finally taken an interest in the dilapidated warehouse and cleaned out all the stray, forgotten possessions, or maybe some other squatter claimed Angel's things as their own after enough time had passed. Whatever the explanation, nothing remained in the apartment except for her memories.

The last time she had felt truly at peace in the small space was the night she and Angel made love for the first time. After that, waking up alone to face her boyfriend in the shape of his murderous, demented alter-ego pretty much put the kibosh on all her soft, fuzzy feelings towards the basement flat. Even after Angel came back from hell with his soul once more precariously intact, they never returned to the apartment. He remained at the mansion... as penance, Buffy always suspected.

The first time she had broken into the apartment on her own was the night of her high school graduation when Angel left town. In a desperate measure to feel close to him again, she sought out the one place where, she felt, they had been their happiest together, even if only for a short time. His things had still been there then, hidden away beneath a layer of thick, choking dust. Buffy had ignored everything, though, choosing to crawl into Angel's bed, but, even when she squeezed her eyes shut and closed off her mind, she still couldn't sense him there. His scent was gone, the bed no longer possessed an indentation from where his body rested every night, and the fact that he was really gone from his former apartment only served to reinforce the knowledge that he was gone from Sunnydale as well, for good. So, after several minutes of trying and failing to be closer to him and crying softly to herself, Buffy had left the flat, vowing to never return. Her conviction had lasted less than a month.

Since the night he left, she returned to the apartment sporadically. Eventually, his things were removed, but, in her heart, it was still Angel's home or, at least, one of them. Despite the pain his lack of presence brought her, the small apartment was the one place in the whole town where she felt close to him. The mansion held too many memories of Angelus and of killing Angel to stop Acathla. The graveyards, and The Bronze, and even the alley where they first met all held important, treasured memories of her time with him, but they were also colored by memories of other people, of monsters. His old apartment was the closest thing she had to an Angel/Buffy safe haven, that one agonizing meeting with Angelus aside.

There was no pattern to her unscheduled visits, no particular sounding bell which resulted in her running off to the one place that symbolized her better past for the slayer. Even when she started college, she would sometimes find herself back in that familiar basement, dredging up old but never forgotten memories. In the back of her mind, Buffy sometimes wondered if she went there out of a naïve sense of hope, that her heart, despite what her common sense told her, was just waiting for that one day when he would be there, too, back and waiting for her to return to him. She never told anybody of her thoughts, of her most treasured if not impossible dreams, of her visits, but, when it came to Angel and her relationship with him, Buffy was used to keeping secrets.

When she went there, she could never stay long. Someone was always waiting for her, needing her time, so her short getaways into the past could only last for a few minutes at a time. Sometimes she just sat there, breathing, remembering, missing, lost in the moments she had once shared with the man she still loved. But, then, that love wasn't as simple and straightforward as it had once been. It was now laced with bitterness and animosity, jealousy and confusion, and, because of her own actions, the love she had for Angel also had to contend with her guilt. So, sometimes she would simply go there to rail against him and then leave moments later with an apology on her lips. What she was apologizing for, though, she never said, because, to that day, she had never told him about their daughter, not even to the ghost of the two of them which haunted her heart when she was inside his old apartment.

However, on that particular night, as she crept into the abandoned building, Buffy knew her time with Angel... or the closest thing she could get to spending time with him... would be different that evening. It hadn't been a conscious decision on her part to go to the flat. When she had left work earlier, her plans had been to go home and check on her little girl before heading out to patrol like she always did, but her legs had carried her in the opposite direction of her house on Revello Drive, taking her into the seedy, dilapidated section of town where Angel's old apartment still remained.

Silently, she opened the door to the small space, a door that she had broken the lock to years before but had never bothered to fix. Just as she had left it on her last visit, the apartment was bare, dark, unclean, a somewhat fitting combination in her opinion given the state of her relationship with the man who had once lived there. Like an automaton, Buffy moved to the corner of the room where Angel's bed once stood and sat down on the floor, her legs crossed beneath her. With her hands fisted at her side, she clenched her arm muscles so tightly that the half moon crescents of her nails bit into her fleshy, sensitive palms, stinging and tearing the tender skin there. The pain was bracing, though, as always.

"I didn't remember at first."

Closing her eyes against the waves of memory that assaulted her with that simple sentence, with that simple word – _remember_, Buffy bit her lip, hard, before she could continue. The things she had wanted to say to Angel, had needed to say to him, had been bottled up inside of her for so long that she wasn't sure she would be able to say them out loud... even if it was only to the paltry remains of his existence in her life. Despite the fact that he really wasn't there, she still felt his presence, and a part of her believed that, deep inside of him, there was a sliver of the man she once knew who saw her there, who heard what she had to say, who felt what she felt when she went to see and be near him. But, if she was ever forced to stand in front of the not quite living, not quite breathing version of Angel and confess her sins as she looked into his eyes, Buffy wasn't sure she could survive such a confrontation... at least, not her heart.

"The pieces of that day, they came back to me slowly... in my dreams. At first, they scared me. They were confusing, and they hurt, because I knew they were about you, and me, and us, and they made me remember all the other times I had dreamed about you and all the things I had dreamed about us together, both good and bad, and I wasn't ready yet for those reminders. It didn't matter what I did, though, the dreams kept coming, as cryptic as ever. Clocks and time played a big role in them, a tea pot, this urgent need to do something different but not knowing what I did in the first place.

"And then I started to get some clues when I was awake, too. I threw up constantly, was dizzy, and, no matter what I did or what I took, I couldn't seem to kick the flu." Laughing ruefully, Buffy confessed, "I remember wishing for you back then. Of course, I always wanted you to come back, to wake up and smell the fact that I'll never be normal, but, once I started not feeling well, I wanted you to be there to hold my hair back, to make me soup, to just hold my hand. You'd think I would have known by then that things are never that simple, not for me, not for us. I blame it on the hormones."

As if she could feel again the first physical stirrings of her miraculous pregnancy, the fluttering swarm of butterfly wings that served as the precursor to kicks and bumps, Buffy uncurled her right hand and laid it to rest against her now perfectly flat stomach. "A part of me knew before I even recognized the signs. I think I could sense her, and I think that she was the one who sent me those dreams. She needed me to remember how we made her, and I did, first within my heart and then because of the dreams. If you think about it, it's pretty creepy that our daughter knew of her conception before her parents did, that her first baby zygote thought was about mommy and daddy getting it on, but I'm hoping regression has occurred, and she has suppressed all knowledge of you and me and what we did that day. If not, I think I'll make Giles explain the whole birds and bees concept to her. It'll still be horrifying, but, at the same time, his discomfort and embarrassment will be a welcome, entertaining distraction.

"Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Imagine that – me, distracted. Wonders never cease. Back to the dreams, though. By the time I entered my second trimester, they became very vivid, I mean, we're talking Technicolor here, surround sound, too. I saw you kissing me in the sun, I saw us destroy your kitchen table, I saw ice cream, and peanut butter and chocolate, and you promising me that we'd make another day just like it tomorrow, except we didn't, because I also saw you take it all away from us, from me."

Despite her best intentions, the slayer couldn't hold back her tears any longer. They rained down her cheeks in a storm, torrential and destructive, pooling and soaking the collar of her shirt. "I didn't tell my mom or my friends the truth. I knew they'd be angry with me because of you, and I knew that they'd never be able to completely accept my child. Even with the lies, though, they still questioned whether she was human or not, despite all my promises to the fact. More importantly, though, I didn't tell you the truth either." Hiccuping, Buffy confessed, "I didn't tell you anything.

"At first, I kept quiet to hurt you. You gave up being human to protect me, and, sure, I could see how that could be interpreted as being noble, and brave, and all that other pointless crap that you thought I needed when I only needed you to love me, but it was still stupid, Angel, and pigheaded, because you never once even considered asking me what I wanted. Yeah, I would have died, but, hello, human and slayer here. Of course, I'm going to die. Just because you sacrificed our one chance to be happy together does not mean that I'll live forever. When the roles were reversed, I risked my friends, my family, my life to be with you, but, apparently, you weren't willing to risk anything to be with me.

"So, yeah, I was angry, pissed off to be exact. I wanted to punish you, so I decided to never tell you about the baby, but, slowly, some of my rage wore off, and I like to think that my mommy genes kicked in, because I stopped thinking about me, and I started to think about my little girl and what she needed. While I knew that I wanted her with all my heart, I wasn't too sure anymore about you. If you didn't want to be human, if you didn't want to give up your super powers to be with me, what would make you want a kid tied around your neck. She'd be a constant weakness, a way for your enemies to get to you, and then there was the fact that I wasn't even sure you'd believe me. I know that you're aware of what happened with Parker, and I'm pretty sure you found out about Riley, though I stalled out that relationship before it was even out of the driveway. Anyway, the point is that for all of these reasons and so many more that I can't really explain, I kept our daughter from you." Choking back a sob, Buffy admitted, "and it was the best decision I've ever made in my life.

"Don't get me wrong, Angel. I love her more than anything in this world, and I don't regret having her. She's a part of you, and we made her together, but that's just going to make saying goodbye to her that much harder, and I am going to have to say goodbye. That's inevitable, because she's dying, Angel, and I'm not talking about some vague, cryptic message from some monster who has threatened her life. She's sick, and there's no cure, and she will die no matter what I do. For the first time in my life, I am completely and utterly helpless, useless.

"I already feel the desperation and the pain drowning me. It's like what I felt when I sent you to hell but worse, because, this time, I'm not sacrificing the one thing I love most in the world for the world; I'm simply losing my daughter, and there's no silver lining or consolation prize, no sacred duty to excuse my actions or lack thereof. And I know what this kind of futility would do to you. You'd go insane." Laughing abruptly, Buffy mocked, "hell, you ran away because we couldn't figure out a way around your curse, because you couldn't take me out into the sunlight or give me babies. Nothing life or death there, and we would have had my lifetime to find a way around our issues or a loophole, but you were too afraid to stay and fight, to try, so you gave up on us, on me, and you ran away, so I know that you wouldn't be able to handle watching our daughter die.

"So, in retrospect, there's a part of me that wonders if she's known all along, our little girl. In my heart, I know that she's the one who showed me the truth about that day through my dreams, and I think she might have known that she'd only be here for a short time, because it's like I possessed some kind of forethought when I was allowing my hurt and my anger to dictate my decisions a year and a half ago. No matter what, Angel, I love you. I hate you, and I'm still furious with you, but I love you, and I always will. I've known that since I was sixteen years old; I guess you just didn't trust in me enough to believe that, but I do, and that's why I don't regret my decision, because I can't. You'll be saved this crushing, defeating pain. You gave me our daughter, I'm giving you blissful ignorance, Angel."

Standing up, Buffy brushed off her legs and butt, freeing her pants of the dust and dirt still clinging to them. Using the left sleeve of her shirt, she attempted – and failed – to dry the tears from her face, giving up when the effort proved futile and more simply replaced the mopped up ones. Though unhurried, she left the apartment, her stride confident yet burdened. There was one more stop that she had to make before she went home that evening.

The graveyard in which her mother rested was almost exactly halfway between Angel's old apartment and the home which she shared with her little girl and two best (only) friends. Though it was the middle of summer, there was definitely crispness about the air, and the strong breeze coming from the west stung Buffy's damp, salty cheeks. Again, though, like her nails cutting into her palms before had served, the wind and the discomfort it induced helped.

Kneeling before her mother's grave, the slayer smiled wistfully. "Hi, mom. I know it's been a while, but, after the night we buried you..." She shuddered at the memory, recalling how she had been incapable of leaving her mother's side, staying in the graveyard all night until the sun rose and reminded her that she had responsibilities beyond her own grief and remorse. "Plus, as a single mother, you know all too well what it's like trying to juggle work and being a parent. Add on to that my duty as she who must guard against the creepy and the crawly and even the crusty, and you're left with an ungrateful daughter who doesn't visit her mother enough."

Realizing that she couldn't even pay her respects to the dead right, Buffy apologized, "sorry about the lack of flowers. This really wasn't a planned trip. I just..." She could go into the whole explanation, how she had gone to Angel's apartment to confide in him the truth about their dying daughter and how, upon leaving his former home, she had been crushed by the sudden, undeniable urge to unburden herself to her mother, but Joyce had never approved of Angel, and she had yet to tell her mother the truth about her little girl's father, and, frankly, Buffy couldn't handle that same confession twice in one night, so, instead, she told her what she had gone there to admit.

"She's dying, mommy." Sobbing, the words came out faster than Buffy could comprehend them. "She's sick, and there's nothing we can do, and I'm going to lose her. She hasn't even celebrated her first birthday yet, and I've been told I need to start preparing for her death. The idea of her little grave beside yours, of a tombstone with her name, Ashlinn Mina Summers, carved across it... I don't think I'm going to survive this, mommy. I can't."

Laughing bitterly, Buffy raged, "maybe this is why slayers aren't supposed to have children. We can kill. We can roam the nights, take thousands of evil lives, but we can't face the mortality of those we love. Perhaps it's another reason why we die young, so we don't even get a chance to form close bonds, to give our hearts away. Losing Angel nearly crushed me, and losing you nearly broke me, but, both times, it was my daughter who pulled me through, who gave me a reason to get up in the mornings, to keep fighting, to live, but, when she's gone, there will be nothing left. Don't get me wrong, I love Giles, and Willow, and Xander but not enough to put on my happy face again, knowing that, while I live for the second time, my daughter couldn't even match the length of my first lifetime.

"She'll never go to school. She'll never learn to ice skate. She'll never get to experience the anticipation of preparing for her first real slumber party. She'll never get into a fight, or receive a detention, or come home crying because some boy pulled her pigtail during recess. She'll never fight with me because I won't allow her to wear makeup until she's a teenager, and she won't learn to ride a bike, and she won't run away to the neighbor's yard and then come home hours later because it's almost dark and she's hungry. She'll never fall in love, have her heart broken, go to prom, go to college, get married, have children of her own, and she'll never get the chance to ask me about her father, to hate me for keeping her away from him. She'll never get to live, because, of all the things a slayer's miracle daughter has to face, she is forced to deal with Tay-Sachs disease."

Standing, Buffy whispered one last time, "my daughter's going to die, mommy, and I think I will, too."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: Fault Line**

_Three Years Later..._

Her little girl was about to turn four.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Buffy yawned but felt content, for those were words she never thought she'd be able to say, let alone dream about, but Ashlinn, despite the odds stacked against her, had proven just how strong she was. Like a true warrior, she fought against her disease, struggling not to survive but to flourish as much as possible. She lived.

But it wasn't easy. Each and every day was a battle. Her body, long before, had turned against her, so Buffy's daughter confronted her own physical weaknesses and, so far, had managed to best them. However, there were limitations she couldn't surpass, obstacles that were simply too difficult to beat. Unlike other children her age, Ash couldn't go to school. She couldn't run, and jump, and skip, or do any of the other activities kids enjoyed, that kids and their parents both took for granted. She couldn't be alone.

Because they never knew when _the moment _would come, when her disease would finally catch up to her and force her to live off of machines from the inside of a hospital room, there was always someone with her, beside her, watching her. Since the night of her first seizure, she had shared a room with Buffy. Even when she slept, someone was constantly there to monitor her. Between the four of them, Ash was kept in a state of perpetual companionship.

As her mother, Buffy was with her the most. During the day while Willow, Xander, and Giles worked, she was at home, both taking care of her daughter and the house they shared with her two friends and the only parental figure she had left. During the evenings when she worked, her three roommates split the responsibility of caring for Buffy's only child. They never complained, and she would be eternally grateful for their sacrifice and their assistance. Again, at night, once she was home from the high school which she still patrolled and guarded, Buffy once more looked after her little girl. Most nights, she hardly slept, too afraid to close her eyes only to wake up and discover that something had happened to her baby, hence the yawning that morning.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee, the slayer took a sip and was immediately both aware of the fact and thankful that Xander had been the first one up that morning. It depended upon his and Willow's work load on any particular day as to which of them woke first. However, the coffee rule was set in stone. Whoever woke first, made it, and the entire household was always just a tiny bit happier the rest of the day when it was Xander who got to the pot first. For some reason, no matter how intelligent she was, Willow simply couldn't make a half decent cup of Joe. Now, they drank it anyway. Desperate caffeine addicts would inhale just about anything to get their fix... even if Willow's version of java made Buffy wonder if her witchy friend did indeed percolate the vile substance in one of Xander's work boots.

The house was quiet as she sat down to eat her breakfast. What exactly she was slowly putting into her mouth, she wasn't too sure. It was sweet, and it was cereal, and, beyond that, Buffy wasn't too concerned. By rote, the spoon moved from the bowl to her lips and then back again, pausing long enough for her to chew. It was a constant, circular pattern that she didn't have to think about, born from years and years of habitual behavior, and it was nice to have the still few minutes of solitude to just be. After all, Ashlinn wasn't the only one who seemed to never be alone.

Circling back to her previous thoughts, Buffy glanced around her for a notebook and pen, wanting to make a list of ideas for her daughter's birthday. Realistically, she knew that, in all likelihood, it was would be her last. Most children with Tay-Sachs disease didn't live past their fourth birthday, let alone actually reach it, so, not only did they need to celebrate the fact that Ash was turning four, but they also needed to somehow celebrate all the other birthdays that she'd never have.

Spotting paper, Buffy, still chewing and with her spoon still held in her hand, moved towards the fridge and took down the small pad they used for grocery lists. Rummaging through the junk drawer, she managed to find a pencil only half eaten, the eraser gone but the end used to write still functional. The paper was from UC Sunnydale, the type of mass produced product Willow and all her fellow admissions counselors swiped as a perk to go along with their less than noteworthy salaries, and the pencil was proof that, as a member of their county's road crew, Xander had left school behind years before, but school – and the habits formed there – still held onto him. Though just a quirk, the fact that Xander would chew on anything – pencils, toothpicks, his key ring – when bored, the dependability of his nature was reassuring to Buffy.

Seated once more at the kitchen counter, Buffy immediately set to work on her list, writing down ideas for presents, party themes, and decorations, her breakfast pushed aside, half eaten and ignored. She didn't get too far, though, before her right eye started to twitch, the muscle spasm obscuring her vision and distracting her. Though a minor moment, really, in the long road of Ash's terrifyingly eventful life, thus far, Buffy would never forget the first time her daughter's eye muscles spasmed. Then, in that moment, there had been no way for her to know what kind of disastrous repercussions such an innocent action would have, but, now, three years later, she could look back and see that day as the start of it all, of everything she feared and hated most.

_Once a girl who lived for the weekends when she didn't have to go to school, Buffy now cherished the weekdays. Though she both adored and appreciated her mom and best friend, it was almost a relief when they left for work and school, respectively, in the mornings. When the house was quiet, and it was just her and Ash, Buffy felt the most relaxed, and she loved spending quality, mother-daughter bonding time with her little girl._

_They had a routine. Every morning, once the front door closed behind whoever was last to leave, they would get up and have breakfast together. As Buffy ate, she would feed her daughter as well. Since she had started eating baby cereal, this task had become quite easier. While she had no difficulty running and shooting a crossbow at the same time, even when nine months pregnant, it took a whole different set of coordination skills to eat breakfast while breast feeding her little girl, a set she had yet to actually acquire. Sure, she attempted multitasking, but one of them always, inevitably, ended up with some kind of food, whether Buffy's or her daughter's, on them. It didn't matter, though, because they took a bath after breakfast._

_While she would wash her hair at night after work and patrol, Buffy would bathe in the mornings with Ashlinn. Making sure that the water was only lukewarm and filled only a few inches of the tub, she would get in with her little girl, allowing the baby to lean against her and playing with her as she splashed and laughed in the water. Oftentimes, more water ended up outside of the tub and on the floor, but Buffy didn't care. It was easily cleaned up, and Ash enjoyed it. There was no harm in a little innocent mess making._

_Following their bath, she would slip on her robe while dressing her baby. Although Southern California rarely experienced cold weather, there could sometimes be a chill in the air, especially during the winter months, and the last thing Buffy wanted was for her daughter to get sick. It was more important to dress her first, then, and she just waited her turn. While she dressed Ash, though, she teased her - tickling her stomach, playing patty-cake, blowing bubbles on her adorably round and baby soft tummy, and playing peek-a-boo. Ash would giggle, and giggle, and Buffy inevitably found herself chuckling along with her little girl. She was just too cute not to laugh with._

_"So, Dumpling-O'-Mine, Mommy thought we'd go to the store today. Does that suit Her Highness' plans as well?" To punctuate the question, Buffy rubbed her own nose against her daughter's. Amongst the giggles that ensued and the peaceful baby cooing, the slayer smiled. "You, Missy," she explained, "are growing too fast and getting too big for your britches. Mommy needs to move you up to the next size, and who are we to turn down a trip to the mall? Summers girls never fight fashion."_

_Pulling away to reach for her little girl's socks, Buffy kept one eye on her daughter who was laying on her bed as she dressed her and used the other to spot the tiny accessories she was searching for. As always, she picked out Ash's outfit before starting to dress her. That way, everything was already out and available, ready and handy when she needed it. "Of course, we will have to do a couple loads of laundry today, too, but you already knew that, didn't you?" Ashlinn lifted her hand to her mouth and started to chew on her fingers. Buffy took that as a 'yes.' "You did, because you, baby girl, are a genius. Between my common sense, and your daddy's..."_

_It was too late. The words were already out of her mouth, so he was already on her mind, but, still, Buffy wouldn't complete her thought. Gone was the natural joyfulness of just seconds before, and replacing it was the forced good humor she hated resorting to when with her little girl. However, just as she refused to finish her previous sentence, she also refused to allow thoughts of Angel to ruin her day. So, instead, she simply ignored her own remarks and backtracked to a safer topic._

_"Where was I...?" Shaking her head to clear her mind, Buffy smiled, a composed, serene grin and then said, "oh, yes... I think we both know whose fault it is that we have so many loads of laundry to do around here and why. You, my Pudgy-Princess," to emphasize her words, Buffy playfully pinched and jiggled her daughter's dimpled knees, "make too many messes. You're just like Mommy, though, aren't..."_

_Breaking her concentration, she watched as her daughter's right eye started to spasm. The tick was slight, and it wasn't constant, only moving once every fifteen seconds, approximately, but it was consistent, and it was also a first. Whenever Ashlinn did something for the first time, even if she wasn't actually the one doing it and, instead, it was just a natural bodily function, Buffy took note and then wrote it down in her little girl's baby book, right down to the very last, most minuscule detail._

_Suddenly, she was laughing. "I get those, two, sweetie. Sorry about that," she apologized regretfully. "They're annoying, right? Don't worry, though. Mommy will just make sure that she starts to eat more bananas for you. Obviously, you're not getting enough potassium from me, but that's easily fixed. However," she warned, "this does mean we'll have to make a quick stop at the Magic Box before we hit Baby Gap. Uncle Rupert will want to hear about this."_

_And he would. If anyone doted on Ash nearly as much as Buffy did, it was her watcher. From the first moment he saw the little girl, Giles had been completely and totally smitten. At only five months, she already had him firmly wrapped around her little finger. In Buffy's opinion, it was a good place for him. She wanted her daughter and her watcher to be close, so much so, in fact, that she insisted upon him being a part of her family, leading to the name Uncle Rupert. Giles was too stiff, too British for a baby, and it did nothing to express just how important he was to her little girl. At first, she had suggested Grandpa Giles, and Xander had voted for Uncle-G. Uncle Rupert had been the compromise._

_"Anya won't care. She'll just roll her eyes, but I'll feed you before we go, skip your burping, and then ask her to hold and walk you around for a few minutes. Baby spit-up on her shoulder should be proper punishment for being the ex-vengeance demon who hates all things more beautiful and more special than she is – namely you, don't you think?"_

_Gathering up her freshly dressed daughter, Buffy nodded in agreement with herself before putting Ash in her baby swing and setting about to complete her own portion of their getting dressed routine. Sadly, after being a mom for five months, dressing herself took less time than dressing Ashlinn... even when she did attempt to look her best. Timeliness, thy name is mother..._

__"**BUFFY!"**

Dropping everything she was doing, Buffy immediately rushed upstairs, not caring about the fact that, in her haste, she spilled her leftover cereal all over the list she had been making, rivulets of milk drip, drip, dripping onto the clean floor below. She took the stairs three at a time. Despite her short height, her slayer strength and sudden intense surge of adrenaline lifted her above the normal realm of ability that her body should have been capable of, providing her legs with the musculature necessary. It was only seconds after Giles first called for her that she reached the room that she shared with her daughter, but it was seconds too many.

"I was just... she was just, and then..."

Using the steady, calm tone she usually reserved for the more stressful slayer situations, Buffy asked, "what happened, Giles?"

She knew it had something to do with her daughter, for the watcher was obviously fine, but he was standing in front of Ash so that she couldn't see her little girl, and there was a sense of foreboding hanging over the three of them, one that she both feared and needed to alleviate. As Giles formulated what he was going to say, stumbling over his attempts, Buffy noticed that the room was absolutely silent, and her little girl, her precious baby, wasn't moving at all. Despite her rapidly deteriorating health, such stasis was odd for any three year old.

"All of a sudden, she stopped..." Pushing Giles out of the way, she noticed what he had yet to say. "... breathing."

Already bending down to administer CPR, she yelled over her shoulder, "call 9-1-1, Giles. Hurry."

For several tense moments, her watcher simply stared at her, his mouth agape, tears filling his age-worn eyes. She knew that he was upset, that he was scared, and nervous, and suspended in a state of paralyzing concern, but this was her daughter, and she couldn't allow one second of uncertainty to cause her any more pain, any more discomfort. Although she didn't want to hurt him, she needed him to move; she needed him to do what she told him to do. "Now, Giles!"

"Yes, yes, of course," he murmured before slipping out of the room.

Distantly, she heard him running down the stairs, picking up the phone, and talking to the 9-1-1 dispatcher, but, up close and personal, all she could see, hear, and do was focus on her daughter. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten; breathe. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten; breathe. Over and over, she performed the necessary steps to keep her little girl alive until the paramedics arrived.

Once they were loaded into the ambulance, the rescue workers hooked her daughter up to machines to help her breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out, the oxygen went into her system and then left. Up and down, up and down, up and down, Ash's chest rose, a visible proof that she was still, in fact, alive, and Buffy found herself finally capable of breathing again herself.

Her little girl's birthday was in a month's time, and she would be turning four... if she lived long enough to see that wonderfully bittersweet day. Buffy was thankful for the time with Ashlinn, desperate for more, and grateful that Angel would never have to watch their daughter die.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: Save Me**

If nothing else, as the slayer, Buffy was familiar with death. She had witnessed it countless times, delivered it to others even more often, and she had even once died herself only to be revived moments later. Logically, she knew that death was a figure who haunted everyone. It didn't matter how old you were or what you did with your life, a person could die without any notice. Death could be peaceful or anguishing, forewarned or a complete surprise. However, none of her knowledge, none of her experience prepared her for that moment as she stood, unmoving, in the hospital waiting room, unsure of her daughter's fate.

Giles paced. He moved as far down the narrow, long room that he possibly could before turning around and starting the process all over again. His steps were short and compact yet hurried as if his fears were literally nipping at his loafer wearing heels. And, as he walked, he would occasionally mumble, cleaning his glasses with a distracted hand. Whether he was attempting to reassure himself with his words or her, Buffy couldn't tell. Whatever he was saying did not register in her mind. All she had the mental capability to ponder was the fate of her little girl. Everything else was simply static, excess and unnecessary stimuli immediately dismissed.

It was almost comical, how unprepared she was for that moment. For three years she had known that her daughter was ill and dying. For three years she had been living with the knowledge that, one day, she would wake up, but her daughter wouldn't. For three years she had known that this day would come, but, now, as she lived that day, Buffy realized that, before that moment, her knowledge had only been abstract, covered in cotton, its sharp edges dulled and protected.

It had been the same way when her mother was sick. For years growing up, she had seen various medical dramas, watched them rapt with attention with her mom at her side. They drooled over the dreamy doctors and cried when the female leads got her hearts broken time after time again, but the medical cases of which the shows revolved their plots around were just ideas. No one really ever woke up one day with massive headaches only to find out weeks later that they had a brain tumor and were going to need surgery. No one really ever had that surgery and then died anyway of complications that went by unseen and unnoticed. Things like that were extremely rare and could never, would never happen to anyone she cared for. But then they happened to her mother, and then her mother had died, and those abstract, covered in cotton ideas became reality for the slayer.

She had thought her mind incapable of mental blinders, that she had moved past the point of wishful thinking and denial, but, as Buffy remained perfectly still, her lithe muscles poised for action she would never be able to take, waiting for news on her daughter's very existence – did she still live, or was she now a grieving parent mourning the loss of her only child? - she realized she had, once more, deluded herself. Despite what she knew, her heart, until that moment, had not really accepted the truth of her little girl's fate. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of her inner most wishes and desires, there had been a part of her waiting, looking, hoping for a miracle. But there was no fairy godmother, and Ashlinn would die, and, now, after literally keeping her daughter alive with her own breath, she could no longer deny that one, lone truth.

The realization made her feel powerless, inept, impotent – three things a slayer should never be forced to confront. With every single loss that had come before in her life, there had been someone to blame and fight. When her parents split up, she, at first, blamed herself and, later, her father. When Angel lost his soul and became Angelus, she blamed Jenny for not telling them everything she knew about the clause and herself, for she had been the one to insist upon sex when Angel tried to slow them down. When Jenny died, she blamed Angelus. He was an easy target for her ire. When she had to send Angel to hell, she, again, blamed herself, but she also blamed everyone else, too, because no one had understood their relationship, no one had entirely supported it, and no one had been able to help her save him. Even when her mother died, she had the hospital and the doctors to blame. Surely, they had missed something; surely, they had made some kind of mistake when it came to her mother's post-op care.

It didn't matter to a slayer if she couldn't battle her enemy with a stake or a sword. She just needed to have a visible, viable opponent, someone or something to focus all of her raging animosity and hurt against, a target. However, when it came to Ash's disease, the only thing to blame was genetics. The doctors had done nothing wrong. In fact, without them, her daughter, in all likelihood, would have already been dead. And she had done nothing wrong taking care of her little girl either. Rather, Ashlinn's illness stemmed from two tiny, microscopic genes, one from her and one from Angel, something, given both their medical history and the circumstances surrounding their daughter's conception, no one would have been able to predict.

"I didn't know what to get."

Looking down at the hand now positioned in front of her, Buffy saw a familiar gesture: Xander holding coffee for her. Obeying his silent command, she took the paper cup from him, holding it in her fear frozen hands, allowing its heat to infuse her skin and at least physically alleviate the chill which had settled over her form at the sounding of Giles' distressed voice nearly an hour before.

"How did you...?"

"Giles called me," Xander answered, obviously understanding both her question and her inability to fully express herself. "While he followed you to the hospital, he got in touch with me at work, told me what happened."

"But it's the middle of the morning," she protested. Though Buffy realized it was a weak argument, she was also having difficulty wrapping her mind around anything besides her worry. It was day, therefore Xander was supposed to be at work. "Don't you have to..."

Again, he interrupted her. "Buff, how many times have you and Willow teased me about my job? You say that we sit in big trucks all day, allowing their size to prove our manhood for us. You say that we keep the orange vest makers in business, because we eat so much on our two hour lunch breaks that we constantly outgrow our uniforms. And you say that, when you someday retire, you want to be able to work on the road crew, too. Trust me, it's fine that I'm here. No," he corrected himself, "it's right that I'm here. It's where I should be. Besides, if I wasn't here, who'd get you god-awful coffee that no human should ever have to swallow, and who'd get snacks?" With his last words, he nodded towards a chair behind her covered in a mound of small bags of potato chips, candy bars, and anything else one could possibly buy from a hospital vending machine.

"Xander, no one's going to eat that."

He shrugged. "It's what I do, Buff. You fight, Giles researches, and Willow either casts spells or performs her magic on the computer. I needed to feel useful somehow."

That was one concept she could completely sympathize with. Unfortunately, though, she was feeling rather on the useless side herself. But the gesture, the sheer normal-ness of Xander getting food, was reassuring to Buffy. For some things, it didn't matter how much time had passed. They would always be the same, and it had been so long since anything had seemed right, perhaps even years. While Buffy could now look back and recall the moment when Ash first displayed signs of her illness, she would never forget the day she finally realized there might be something wrong with her daughter. Just like with Xander's gesture, it, too, was a simple action wrapped up in the complexities of a disease she didn't yet even know about.

"_This was such a good idea," Willow enthusiastically commented as she directed Buffy and Ash down the beach. While Buffy carried her daughter and all the various accouterments necessary for a baby, Willow was in charge of handling their beach supplies. She held the blanket, and their cooler, and the little sand toys Buffy had insisted upon bringing along despite the fact that Ashlinn was too small yet to use them. "We really needed a day like this."  
__  
"A day to forget," Buffy asked. She couldn't help the harshness that entered her voice._

_"No, not forget," her best friend corrected. "We could never do that. But to just be, to relax and enjoy something simple, something normal, it's definitely of the good."_

_And she agreed with her, despite her apparent prickly mood. "I know, and I'm sorry, Will."_

_"It's okay, Buffy. I understand."_

_And, if anybody would, Buffy knew that person would be Willow. While she still had both of her own parents, Willow had this way about her. She was able to sympathize with anybody, get inside and underneath their pain, taking it upon herself and experiencing it as well. Plus, there was the fact that, although not the loss of a parent, she, too, still mourned and would always mourn for people who were once in her life but no longer there. Friends, former lovers, and even the loss of her own naïve innocence were all things Willow had to grieve for. Also, Buffy knew that, despite not being related, Willow, too, had loved Joyce and felt her loss deeply._

_"It's just... the wound," with this, the slayer rubbed unconsciously over the skin above where her heart beat. "It's still so raw." Glancing around the nearly empty beach, Buffy explained, "she should be here with us today. Instead of just you, and me, and Ash, I would have pestered her into closing down the gallery for the afternoon, so she could be with her granddaughter on her very first trip to the ocean."_

_Though slightly hesitant, Willow suggested, "maybe she is here with us, Buffy... just not in the way you want her to be."_

_She shrugged. "Maybe, but it's not the same. It's not the way I want her to be here." And, despite the selfishness of her confession, it was the truth, and she couldn't regret her feelings or believe them to be bad or wrong... at least not yet, not when she still cried herself to sleep at night and refused to go through her mother's things._

_Quietly, Willow assured her, "I'm sure she understands, too, Buffy."_

_With that, the two girls fell into a silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable one. It was just introspective. As they lost themselves to their thoughts, the wind, and the waves, and the sand beneath their bare feet, they allowed their feelings to breathe. The freshness of the sea cleansed them, and, while they weren't washed away or forgotten, they were soothed over, buried for the time being like the tiny rocks that tumbled through the waves only to land on the beach temporarily until the tide took them back out hours later._

_Together, they worked to set up their little afternoon oasis. While Buffy put a second application of sunscreen upon her daughter's precious, sensitive skin, Willow spread out their wide, thick blanket and positioned their beach umbrella behind them. As Buffy got out Ash's toys and snacks, Willow did the same with their own food and drinks. When they finished, both girls sat back, relaxed, and took a deep, calming breath._

_A giggle escaped Buffy's make-up free lips. "I can't believe I got you to skip your classes."_

_"Hey," Willow defended, "I'm a rebel."_

_"If by rebel you mean the only college sophomore_

_ever to have perfect attendance."_

_Her best friend's cheeks were suddenly suffused with a blush so bright it matched her fiery locks, and the sudden heat had nothing to do with the sun but with Buffy's teasing. Grumbling under her breath, Willow excused, "I like school."_

_"And I'm glad you do, Will." Rolling her eyes, the slayer groused, "one of us should, at least. It makes Giles happy."_

_Nodding in agreement, Willow said, "I think he misses helping you with your homework."_

_"Masochist much?"_

_"He is British," Willow pointed out, as if either of them needed reminding of that fact. Screwing up her face in question, she asked, "are the British known for being masochists?"_

_"I think it's the fact that he's an adult."_

_"Oh." With that, the two girls fell quiet for several moments. "But, really," Willow told her. "I'm glad that I let you talk me into coming with you today. The fresh air feels good, and it's been too long since I've gone to the beach. Plus, I have to admit that I needed the color."_

_"Totally, Will," Buffy teased. "If I ran into you in a dark alley, I'm not sure I'd know if you were friend or fanged foe."_

_The girls laughed, and, as the afternoon wore on, they were able to enjoy their day, despite the less than stellar circumstances surrounding them in their everyday lives. But everybody deserved a peaceful break, even a vampire slayer and her best friend. Plus, it was Ash's first trip to the beach, too special of an occasion to waste on maudlin thoughts and oppressive grief._

_Hours later, just as the sun was beginning to set, they were preparing to leave. The remaining food was stored securely, Ash's toys were packed away, and even Buffy's little girl was ready to go, her small body cradled protectively in her mother's embrace. Though Buffy was willing to take her friends along with her when she patrolled, and though Ashlinn had been with her night after night as she slayed vampires while the little girl was still swimming and playing contentedly in her womb, Buffy absolutely refused to allow her_ other life _to touch her daughter. As soon as the final rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, they would be in the car and on their way back to Revello Drive, Ashlinn tucked into her crib long before the monsters had chance to wake and stumble out of their lairs. Just the blanket remained, on which she and Willow were still seated._

_"Plans for tonight?"_

_"The usual," Buffy answered. She didn't need to articulate further. Since her mother passed away, she had randomly started to take days off of work, using vacation days, personal days, sick days for no reason. She would be fine for a day or two, a week, and then the pain and loss would catch up to her again, and she would just need a rest, a chance to regroup. On those nights when she didn't work, she would simply watch her daughter sleep, go out for a quick patrol, and then come back home to watch Ash sleep some more until she was ready to go to bed herself. "You?"_

_"I think I'll study for finals," Willow responded, to which Buffy offered a tiny smile to the wind, the only thing to notice her gentle amusement. Same old Will. You could take the girl out of the class, twist her arm and sweet talk her into skipping classes for an afternoon, but you couldn't take the class out of the girl – class... of the studying version, not the personality description, not that willow didn't possess personality class, but..._

_Buffy paused, rolled her eyes at her own silent, rambling ways, and then said, "I think the seagulls will be glad when we leave." Observing the hovering birds, she frowned at their sheer number. It was a good thing she was the slayer and not easily frightened, because, otherwise, those nights of watching classic horror movies with her mother, before she was called, would have been coming back to bite her – hard, and the bite mark left behind would have been made in the shape of a nasty, mean beak. "They're rather stingy when it comes to sharing their turf."_

_Willow chuckled. "I think they're enjoying the last days of peace and quiet before summer break starts. Soon, they'll be the ones out numbered."_

_As if to punctuate Willow's words, the seagull closest to them, one that was hovering at the very edges of their blanket as if contemplating the best way of stealing it out from underneath them in order to drive them away from the scratchy, uncomfortable surface of the sandy beach, squawked loudly. While it was a less than pleasant noise, the shrill cry of absolute fear that echoed from her daughter's suddenly parted in mid-scream lips made a normally unflappable Buffy jump. Both she and Willow looked towards Ashlinn in concern._

_When the bird squawked again and her daughter simply yelled louder, they both quickly moved to their feet and started for the car, watching the sun set suddenly the last thing on their minds. By the time they made it back to the relative stillness of the parked vehicle, Ash had calmed down, but Buffy was far from reassured. Her daughter's reaction to the pesky bird had simply been too much. If she didn't know better, she would have thought her hearing was too sensitive, that what she heard was magnified to a much greater level than anyone else with normal, human senses, but her thoughts were just ridiculous._

_Weren't they?_

_It was on the ride home, Willow driving, that she finally found her voice and wrestled up enough nerve to ask her friend, "have you ever noticed anything... weird about Ash before today?"_

_"What?"_

_Obviously, Willow was surprised by the question. Restating her query, Buffy posed, "I mean, she's never reacted that way to anything else before in front of you, right?"_

_"She was just scared, Buffy, that's all. There's nothing weird about her."_

_Still, she wasn't satisfied. "But maybe something's wrong. After all, I'm not... normal, and my pregnancy was less than ideal for any child."_

_As they pulled up to a stop sign, Willow ignored traffic laws and put the SUV in park. Turning towards her, she spoke quietly yet adamantly. "Buffy, you're a wonderful mother, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with your daughter. She's perfect. Stop worrying."_

_"You're right," Buffy admitted, offering her friend a small grin. "I'm just being paranoid."_

_"And stupid."_

_"And stupid," she agreed with a soft chuckle. With that, Willow put the car back into drive and continued the trek back to the house. However, in the back of Buffy's mind, she wondered. So far, since the moment she had figured out that she was pregnant, her instincts had been impeccable when it came to her daughter. She had been right about her being human, about Angel being her father, and she had known exactly how to care for an infant despite never even holding one before. But surely, this time, her instincts were wrong. They were; they had to be._

_For the first time in her life, Buffy hoped that the special place inside of her that just knew_ _things was off, that it was suddenly wonky, because, if it wasn't... Well, that was just one something, one idea, she wasn't ready to face – not yet, never now, not ever, but she also knew that it was that kind of fear – the kind you automatically wanted to deny – that needed to be faced __immediately... if not yesterday. _

"And Willow," she asked with a slight shake of her head as she came back to the present.

"Giles called her, too," Xander answered. Showing a sense of awareness he was never credited for, he didn't ask her about where she had drifted off to. He simply existed back in the present with her now that she was ready to be there with him. "She'll be here soon."

Willow wasn't whom she needed there by her side, but she was the only other person she'd get, and Buffy knew to be thankful for imperfect things. Sometimes, they were all one received in life. What she needed, though – whom she really needed... both of those things were impossible. She needed her daughter to suddenly be healthy, to be cured, to be given a clear bill of health and a life expectancy that would surpass her own; she needed her mom; and, most importantly, faced with the reality of her daughter's impending mortality, she needed...

"Miss Summers," Doctor Welby announced, pushing through the emergency room doors and immediately moving to Buffy's side. She didn't rush, yet, at the same time, she moved with the steady sense of purpose only those who confront life and death daily understand. Cutting straight to the chase, the physician said, "for now, she's alive. She's still fighting, but we have unfortunately moved into the next stage."

"The last stage," Buffy countered in a whisper, all too aware of every facet of her daughter's deadly illness.

"She's hooked up to a respirator and will need to remain on it indefinitely. If you would follow me, please, I'll take you to her, and we'll discuss your options."

Buffy immediately moved to follow, simply holding out her hand. She didn't need to ask, and she didn't need to even look at him. She just knew that Giles would understand, that he would come to her side and lead her into the inevitable, sheltering her from the upcoming storm as much as his thin, weary shoulders possibly could. And Xander, without feeling excluded or left out, would remain in the waiting room, standing guard over his snacks while he counted down the seconds until Willow arrived. He would break the news to her, and they would share their sorrow with one another, carry the other's burden for each other. It was simply what they did. It was their way, and, just like the earlier reminder of Xander placing the cup of coffee in her hand, Buffy was somewhat comforted by the familiar.

It wasn't the cold comfort she craved, but, then again, cold comfort would be the last heavy piece of straw upon her back, breaking her once and for all. If she wanted to survive the next hour, day, week, possibly the next month, _he_ could never find out about her pain, because shielding _him_ from the same hurt was the one thing keeping her afloat in her sea of misery and regret. Always an angel, _he_, in one way or another, watched over her and protected her, sometimes completely oblivious to all the ways in which he saved her.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Cannonball**

Willow had never gotten a speeding ticket before. Considering the fact that she lived in Sunnydale, where the cops were more concerned about jaywalking than they were the town's unusually high death rate, that was quite an achievement, especially since, as one of the slayer's best friends, she had been forced to flee from just about every sort of baddie imaginable. But, no matter what, though, she always attempted to be a safe driver.

Perhaps it was her fear of irony which caused her to follow the speed limit. To die at the hands of a horrible automobile accident after surviving vampire attacks, robot romances, and wittingly bedding a werewolf just seemed so anticlimactic, and Willow did whatever she could as a driver to make sure that never happened. She wore her seatbelt, she used her turn signals, and, if she was running late and was forced to go faster than was advisable, she would only allow herself an extra five miles per hour.

So, when she got pulled over that morning on her way to the hospital for speeding, she tried to explain both her past driving history and the beliefs behind it, sans the information pertaining to the Hellmouth, and the fact that there was an extremely viable reason behind her haste. She told him how she had lost too many people in her short life already and how, if she was going to lose someone else she loved, then she needed to be there with them. Willow apologized for her mistake but asked for the officer's understanding and compassion anyway.

He wrote her the ticket anyway.

As she parked her car in the hospital lot and started for the main entrance, she had to wonder if the histrionics and tears had been just a little bit too much for the cop to handle. Despite her best efforts to staunch the flow of emotion, when she tried to explain Ash's situation, she had started to cry. The stress, and the fear, and the fact that she wasn't yet there with her family had suddenly just become too much, the agonizing feelings manifesting themselves in the form of choking, burning sobs. While she knew that many women liked to spin tales of desperation and sway police officers with false displays of histrionics, shouldn't someone trained to study and capture criminals be able to judge sincerity for himself? Apparently, in her case, not... or maybe the guy was just short on his monthly quota and wouldn't have allowed her to get out of her ticket for any reason.

In hindsight, though, it really didn't matter. Willow didn't lament the fact that her formerly spotless driving record now had a blemish or that she owed the city of Sunnydale $135. No, what bothered her, what tormented her, was the fact that, by speeding, she had caused herself to get pulled over, and, by becoming upset, she had been forced to sit alone on the side of the road as she took five minutes to compose herself enough to drive again after the cop pulled away. Those two things combined meant that, in her delay, Ashlinn might have passed away, and Willow wouldn't have had a chance to say goodbye.

She wasn't sure if she could handle that.

Years ago, she would have been much better equipped emotionally to deal with loss. Because of her parents' apparent lack of concern or interest, she had been a teenager and completely unaware of just how beautiful, just how selfless and unconditional love could be. While it seemed as though she had always loved Xander in one way or another, it wasn't until Buffy entered Willow's life that she had learned what true love meant and just how much it hurt to lose it.

Buffy was the one who brought the three of them together, who made Willow, Xander, and Buffy such good friends that they couldn't imagine their lives without each other and would do anything to save one another. Buffy was the one who brought Giles into their world, introducing to both Willow and Xander an adult who could love them for who they already were and not for who they could someday be. Buffy was the one who so readily shared her mother with them; who invited them to dinners, and sleepovers, and holiday celebrations where they found Joyce's ready, waiting, and welcoming arms. And, perhaps most importantly of all, Buffy was the one who showed them how the most precious thing in the world was the love of a child.

Though Ash was not her daughter, Willow sometimes found herself wondering if loving and helping to care for the little girl would be the closest she ever got to experiencing motherhood herself. Between the almost near impossibility of making a healthy, functioning relationship work when one battled evil under the shadows of night, her attraction towards other women, and the fact that, unlike most people, she stood up to and faced the reality of her own mortality on a daily basis, she wasn't sure if she would ever have the chance to someday give birth, let alone be around long enough to raise her son or daughter, and she knew that, for his own reasons, Xander felt the same way. That was why it was so difficult for the two of them to accept Ashlinn's unchangeable fate.

However, at the same time, Willow also realized that, for as hard as it was for her to prepare for the little girl's eventual demise, it was twice as painful, twice as devastating for Buffy, so, as she came to a stop in the intensive care waiting room, standing shoulder to shoulder with Xander – the one and only constant in her life since she was a child, she shoved aside her own misery, her own grief, her own selfish rage and, with a determined roll of her heavily burdened shoulders, prepared to do and be whatever was necessary to, if not help, then at least comfort her best friend.

Slipping the fingers of her own right hand though Xander's left, she asked, "what happened?"

"I, uh, I really don't know," he whispered. "All I could get from Giles was that, one minute she was okay, and then, the next, she wasn't breathing." Willow gasped, the sharp, harsh sound settling heavily between them, around them. "He froze," Xander continued, "could do nothing but yell for Buffy. Once she got there, she started CPR, had Giles call 911, but..."

She knew there was more he wanted to say, needed to say, but she couldn't wait any longer to know. If it was bad news, she had to hear it for the closure, and, if it wasn't as bad of news, then she had to have that grain of hope to hold onto. Turning to face the man beside her and squeezing his hand, Willow demanded, "just tell me. Is Ash alive or..."

"She's holding on." With a sigh of relief, she stepped away from Xander, backed up until her knees collided with a cushioned yet still uncomfortable hospital waiting room chair, and collapsed. "But she's on a respirator, though. Permanently."

"So," she wearily lifted her gaze to her childhood best friend's. "It's already here."

Saying the words she couldn't bring herself to utter, Xander acknowledged, "the last stage."

Glaringly, they both knew what those three words – words that separately meant nothing, words that, when used in just about any other situation, could actually mean good things, but words that, in their case, meant Buffy's daughter was dying. Realistically, Willow knew that Ash had been slowly dying since the day she was born. Well, in a way, they all were, but, in Ashlinn's situation, the rate of mortality was sickeningly increased.

Despite the fact that they had all known this day would come, in the farthest corners of their hearts, in the deepest recesses of their minds, they had all been wishing, and praying, and hoping for a reprieve – a miracle, last minute cure, a sudden revelation that the doctors had all been wrong and Ash's illness was something easily treatable and not life taking, or even a ridiculous, real life deus ex machina. Surely, if the powers that be were capable of creating and rising the slayer line... or, at least, allowing and assisting the ancient watchers in doing so... and bringing Angel back from Hell, then they were powerful enough, capable enough of saving one little, tiny, remarkable human girl. Those dreams of a happily ever after, though, had been just that – a fairytale, empty promises they told themselves in order to get up everyday and put a smile on their faces.

Swallowing the rising bile filling her throat and shoving aside her dark thoughts, Willow took a deep, fortifying breath and clenched her fists together. "What can we do," she asked rhetorically, knowing Xander had no more of the answers than she herself did. When he just stood there, looking, for all the world, as though he were on the verge of breaking into a thousand, unrecognizable pieces, she raised her voice and and determinedly said, "there has to be something we can do."

"We'll be here," her best friend replied, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "We'll be here for Giles, and Buffy, and Ash, and for each other, but we're not doctors, Will. We can't fix this... for anybody."

After a moment, she replied, "we're not enough." At Xander's narrowed gaze, she explained, "Buffy needs more than just her two best friends and her watcher here with her while she goes through this; she needs somebody who loves her."

"We do love her."

"Not that kind of love," Willow argued.

"Look, if I could bring back Joyce, I would," Xander said, and he obviously meant it. The problem was, though, that she wasn't talking about parental love either. Though he hadn't been in Buffy's life since she was born, and though they didn't share a single strand of DNA, Giles, for all intents and purposes, was the slayer's father. Pulling Willow away from her private thoughts once more, Xander pressed, "and, though I know at one point that they were close, I don't think Hank should be here right now. I don't think he _deserves _to be here."

"No, I agree. I just hate feeling so helpless."

"And that's why I get snacks. Speaking of," her best friend segued. With hands in the front pockets of his work jeans, he rocked back on the heels of his boots. "I think you need some tea. It'll help you relax, it'll give me something to do, and there's this cute brunette down in the cafeteria that I've already made friends with." Wiggling his eyebrows, Xander joked, "she gives me free donuts... if you know what I mean."

Despite the situation, Willow felt a small, amused smile lift the corners of her mouth, partly as a way to say thank you to Xander for his effort to make her feel better... if only for a moment. "You mean, when you go down there, you talk so much that she gives you a free donut to shut you up and keep your mouth otherwise occupied?"

"Semantics, Will," he defended, backing up. "Pure, tricky, pesky semantics."

As soon as he was gone, she stood to pace. Walking from one end of the waiting room to the other, Willow fidgeted with a piece of her loose hair and bit a corner of her lip. Even with all the circumstantial differences between that morning and the day Joyce died, she couldn't help but compare the two experiences emotionally. Just as she felt with Ash's case, when Buffy's mother passed away, she had forced her own grief aside in order to both recognize and respect the slayer's. Although she usually preferred to push the afternoon of Joyce's death to the deepest recesses of her memory, that now seemed impossible.

_She knew she must look a mess. Sitting on the front steps of the Summers' home – her home, Willow gripped the concrete edge of stairs beside her, allowing the cold stone to pierce into the __tender skin of her fingers. The pain was necessary. Without it, she might break down again; she might start to cry... once more, making her previous effort to stem the flood of tears rolling down her pale, drawn face pointless. Without the pain, she probably would have stood up and ran away, but she couldn't do that. Joyce's memory deserved more; Buffy deserved more._

_If there was one thing she never wanted her best friend to experience, it was walking through her front door to confront the sight of her dead mother resting awkwardly on their family couch. It was a sight Willow knew she would be haunted by for the rest of her life, no matter how long she lived – seeing Joyce so still, so... gone. By the time she had returned from school, it had been too late. Despite knowing that Buffy's mother was dead and had been dead for quite some time, she had performed CPR anyway, if for no other reason than to assure herself that she had done everything possible. At the same time, she called for help. By the time the EMT's arrived, she was breathless from her efforts and exhausted from keeping her descent into hysteria at bay for so long._

_Joyce had been pronounced dead immediately, the EMT's not even taking the time to futilely attempt to revive her like Willow herself had done, and, in a way, she had been thankful towards the brevity of their stay. However, when she realized that the body would have to remain at the house until the coroner arrived, she had been at a loss as to what to do. Buffy was expected home at any minute, and it wasn't like Willow could just call her and say, 'hey, Buff? Would you mind running some needless errands? I don't want you to see your dead mother.'_

_Instead, she had resolved to stop her before she could witness the death scene in the living room and, as gently as possible, break the news to her. She had called Giles at the Magic Shop, and he was on his way over to take care of Ash, and Xander had reassured her that he'd be there as soon as he could, but it would be longer than either of them liked, because he was off working on the other side of the county. She had even attempted to reach Buffy's dad, but, like always these days, he had been unavailable... according to his secretary._

_She heard her best friend before she saw her. Pushing her daughter home in her stroller from their daily sojourn to the park, Willow listened as Buffy told the little girl stories – flights of fancy that were meant to entertain and make children believe in handsome Prince Charmings and enchanted, magical forests, and, while it was refreshing to know that such an innocence still existed somewhere within the slayer, Willow cringed at the knowledge that she was about to strip a piece of that innocence away._

_When Buffy finally noticed her, she stopped talking. Squaring her shoulders as if she were preparing to face the guillotine, she marched up the sidewalk and approached Willow's position on the front stoop. Her manner was detached, cool, that of a trained warrior going into yet another battle. "What happened?"_

_"I... I don't really know," Willow stammered, standing up. Because of the steps, she stood at least a foot taller than her best friend, and, inanely, she found herself focusing upon how the position of power should have been the other way around. "I came home earlier, and Joyce... she was just... there. There was no warning, no sign of..." Gulping down her sorrow, she finished her thought, "struggle or pain. She was just..."_

_"Gone," Buffy finished for her. Taking two awkward steps away from her daughter's stroller, her best friend said, "if you wouldn't mind watching Ash for a few hours, I think I'd like to be alone."_

_But Willow refused to allow her to leave, at least not yet, not that way. "Buffy, are you sure you don't want to talk to somebody? I called Giles and Xander, and they're both on their way, but I could try to reach..."_

_"No."___

The rude interruption, the sheer amount of strength the slayer put behind that one, solitary word had Willow figuratively rocking back. It was like her best friend had just slapped her, the dismissal had been so pointed. However, she knew that it was just the grief talking and that Buffy might not even know just whom it was Willow had been trying to refer to.

_"He'd come, you know," she reassured her. Perhaps that was the problem; maybe Buffy didn't believe, after everything that had happened between them, that he'd actually be there for her as she mourned her mother's death. "I don't care what he said, what you said, or what you did to each other, he loves you, and he'd want to be here for you, Buffy."_

_Snapping angrily, Buffy screamed, "just stop, Willow! Let it go!"_

_"But..."_

_Ending the discussion, the slayer turned to walk into the house.. despite all of Willow's efforts to keep her away until Joyce's body was removed. Without even turning around, Buffy whispered, "I don't... I don't want him here."_

_For years, Angel had been a taboo topic between their group, so Willow was used to avoiding any references to the souled vampire or even recalling memories in which he had a starring role, but Buffy's vehemence against him coming to Sunnydale to support her in her time of sorrow and need was more than just that of a scorned, hurt lover. It ran deeper, was more desperate, and Willow found herself wondering just what it was that Buffy feared in regards to her former boyfriend. Whatever it was, though, she knew enough to respect her best friend's wishes and allowed the topic to drop._

_"Come on," Willow said, reaching into Ash's stroller to release the little girl from the seat's confines. Lifting the baby, she carefully adjusted her against her shoulder and walked into the house, too intent upon offering and receiving comfort to worry about putting the stroller away or even moving it out of the front path. Laughing softly to herself, she asked Buffy's daughter, "have I ever told you the story about the tainted band candy? Let's just say that, because of that chocolate, I saw a whole different side to your grandma..."_

Despite herself, Willow felt a second grin transform her face. No matter what the situation was, the memory of Giles and Joyce's infamous one night stand never failed to bring a smile to her lips or a little tug to her heartstrings. She had always wondered what might have happened between the two adults if they had ever put their embarrassment over that night aside and realized just how powerfully connected they were. But such thoughts were pointless now since Joyce was long gone and Giles was even more firmly rooted in his bachelor lifestyle. Plus, mourning the loss of a romance that never really was simply seemed ridiculous when, in just a short time, she'd be forced to mourn the loss of a little girl who was terrifyingly real.

"Here you go," Xander announced, depositing a cup of tea into her limp, distracted hands. "Sorry it took me so long, but I accidentally got jelly from my latest donut on my shirt and had to stop and wash it off in the little boy's room."

Dutifully taking a sip of her herbal tea, Willow nodded in acknowledgment while, at the same time, remaining silent. Although she occasionally responded with an 'of course' and an 'I see,' she tuned her childhood best friend out as he told her of his yet to be endeavored but destined to fail relationship with the cute cafeteria employee. While she didn't particularly like being the type of person who could so easily ignore someone they loved, her thoughts were simply too important to spare even a single shred of her concentration.

Maybe Buffy had been perfectly clear about not wanting Angel to be there as she buried her mother, but, surely, it was a completely different set of circumstances which surrounded the impending loss of her daughter. Willow had no doubt that her best friend still, to that day, mourned her mother's death, but Joyce had lived a full and, if not long, then at least much longer life than Ash. If losing her mother had been devastating for the slayer, than losing her daughter was going to be downright impossible, and pride and fear shouldn't stand in Buffy's way of wrapping herself in the compassion and understanding of every single person who loved her.

With her mind made up, she turned to Xander. "I'd hate to ask, but would you mind getting me a coffee instead?" Handing the cup of tea back to her best friend, she offered an excuse. "I just... I think I'm going to need the caffeine."

"Hey, no problem," he remarked, reaching out to give her a one arm hug around the shoulders. "Besides, I still need to finish mapping out all the potential routes to and from the cafeteria. One can never have too many possible detours in mind when it comes to keeping his loved ones in java and juice. I'll be back in a jiffy, Will."

She waited until Xander rounded the corner and was out of sight before she rushed out of the intensive care waiting room in the opposite direction. While cell phones might be prohibited inside of hospitals, they had small gardens and rooftop access for a reason, and Willow had every intention of finding a quiet, out doors place to make one very important phone call.

No matter what Xander might say, or Giles, or even Buffy herself initially, she knew she was doing the right thing, and that's all the reassurance she needed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Melt Your Heart**

She felt like she was getting up for the first time in months after being sick. She was weak and off balance, the result of a fever, nausea, and aches and pains ravaging her body for so long, and she was perpetually stuck in that moment where she wasn't sure if she would succeed in standing or not, if she would be able to push her way through the hazy dizziness and reclaim her balance and equilibrium, or if she would collapse back down, too weak to fight anymore. Sound, and time, and space were fuzzy – there but distant, because too much of her concentration had to be spent on simply moving from one moment to the next. Inhale, exhale, blink; inhale, exhale, blink.

"You have her stabilized. She's resting carefully. Is the oxygen really necessary?"

"I'm afraid Ash's body can no longer meet its own needs, so, yes, Mr. Giles, to answer your question, the oxygen is necessary, and, unfortunately, very soon, possibly within days, we're going to have to resort to more radical treatment," Doctor Welby cautioned, warned. "In fact, before... eventually, Ashlinn will need a breathing tube."

"Ah, I see," her watcher murmured softly. "I take it then that she will not be going home anytime soon?"

"No, she'll remain in the hospital indefinitely."

If only.

Despite the fact that she hated hospitals, Buffy would move in, take up permanent residence if her daughter's specialist's words were actually true. If it would keep her little girl alive for forever, she'd give up everything and never leave the hospital again, but, when Doctor Welby said indefinitely, she meant that Ash would remain there until she died, not until they someday found a cure.

"And everything else," Giles asked.

"We'll be able to more carefully monitor her seizures here, so that should help, but, at the same time, now that we've entered this last stage, you'll see the effects of the disease occurring more rapidly. Her motor skills will probably be depleted to the point where she'll only be able to blink and maybe lift a finger or two at the most. Her hearing and sight will continue to worsen, and it wouldn't be far fetched to assume she'll be both deaf and blind within a month's time. When these things happen, her speech will be drastically impaired, perhaps to the point where she won't be able to talk at all. We also have to worry about paralysis, inability to swallow, and mental retardation."

As if finally noticing the devastated look upon the middle aged man's face, the physician's tone softened, and Buffy could practically hear her backtracking. "But, so far, we've been lucky. Ashlinn is still aware of her surroundings, she is still recognizing her loved ones, and we're going to make sure that we keep her as comfortable as possible in the upcoming weeks, so that she doesn't suffer unnec..."

"Is that better, though," Buffy interrupted, standing. Looking from Giles to the doctor, she repeated herself. "Is it really?" When they didn't respond, she continued, "she's in pain, and she knows it. She's aware that there is something wrong with her, something that her mother can't fix. She sees how sad we all are, how devastated, how hopeless, how angry at the world and the things in it that we can't change. Yes, it might be better for us, because her clarity allows us to spend a few more days with the little girl we all love, but it's not better for my daughter. She's suffering, and she knows it; she's dying, and she knows it. Personally, I don't know what's preferable. All I know is that, if I could take this from her and carry it myself, I would, because I'm her mother, and that's what mothers are supposed to do. We're supposed to do everything within our power to protect and care for our children, but life doesn't work that way. It's too fucking unfair."

Backing away from the room's other two occupants, their shock and hurt from her outburst expressed plainly upon their worry-lined faces, Buffy didn't apologize. "So, stay here if you want. Talk about how my daughter is so lucky, about how this terrible disease is going to destroy her before it kills her, bond over your helplessness, but me? Me, I'm going to go spend as much time as I possibly can with my little girl. I just... I can't... Excuse me."

Neither of them attempted to stop her, and she was grateful for the reprieve.

Quickly, she made her way towards Ashlinn's room, careful to avoid the gazes of the staff members she passed. Even if they weren't assigned to her daughter's case, everyone in the hospital knew about the little girl with Tay-Sachs disease, about how she had been brought into the emergency room earlier that day after she stopped breathing, and Buffy just couldn't take one more of their pitying glances. If she was going to keep herself from falling apart, she had to ignore the grief – both her own and everyone else's – and focus on her child. Until Ash's heart beat for the last time, her pain, her sorrow, her distress didn't matter. She'd have a lifetime to cry and rage after her little girl was gone, but, until then, she had to remain strong.

That's also why she avoided going to see Xander and Willow. While there was a part of Buffy who recognized the fact that her best friends were nearly as destroyed by Ash's condition as she was, she couldn't face them either. Their questions would just have to remain unanswered until Giles found them later; their fears would just have to remain unsettled until the doctor addressed them. Her avoidance was selfish, but she just didn't care.

When she arrived in her daughter's room, she found her sleeping peacefully... or as peacefully as someone hooked up to half a dozen machines in a hospital could possibly sleep, and she was grateful for the fact. Not only did Ash need her rest, but Buffy hoped that, while sleeping, her little girl was able to leave her life behind and exist in a dream state somewhere without suffering, without the realities of her disease pressing down upon her. Plus, if she was being completely honest with herself, she needed the few moments to gather her courage, to push aside the cacophony of emotions she was toiling under so that she could put all her attention and focus upon her daughter... where it should be. But it was impossible to forget, impossible to separate herself entirely from the situation, so, instead, Buffy found herself recalling memories of a better time, of a happier time, memories from before she knew her little girl was going to die young.

_She had asked the nurse for a few minutes alone with her newborn daughter before the crowd was admitted. Contrary to their wishes, she had elected to deliver her child without anyone but the hospital staff by her side. Both her mother and Willow had been adamant that they be with her, but Buffy had argued against their advice and desires, instead preferring to go through the experience alone. Maybe a part of her was afraid their old fears about her child's biology would resurface, but Buffy knew the main reason she didn't want anybody else with her was because the one person who should have been there wasn't. That was her own fault, though._

_Smiling wistfully at the thought, the new mother couldn't contain her joy. Even thoughts of her little girl's absent father couldn't dampen her mood. Despite the fact that she could feel her body's inevitable soreness, her slayer genes were already healing her tired and worn body, and the drugs she had been given were still coursing through her system, so the discomfort was minimal, distant, a shadow in the back of mind. Instead, in the forefront of her mind was the perfect, tiny miracle she held in her arms, her baby girl nestled tenderly in the crook of her elbow._

_Without looking up, she heard the door to her hospital room open, heard the sound of her family entering. They were trying to be quiet, trying to be respectful of the ordeal she had just been through and of the fact that she and her newborn child might be asleep, but, even without her accelerated senses, she would have been able to hear them from a mile off. Their bodies fairly radiated excitement and anticipation, and she smiled at the knowledge that they already loved her baby so much. How far all of them had come together during the months of her pregnancy._

_"It's okay, guys," Buffy assured them, grinning crookedly at the wide assortment of expressions she saw ranging before her. Giles looked downright embarrassed, no doubt stuck on the idea of just how mothers gave birth in correlation with his slayer. Xander looked nervous and slightly grossed out, proving that, no matter how much time passed, some people never changed. Willow looked so elated that Buffy was nervous she'd begin to levitate and float away. And her mother looked proud, awed with astonishment and joy. They almost made her cry, but, instead, she just laughed softly. "I'm not asleep, and I think she's..."_

_"She's," Willow repeated. If possible, her ecstatic smile widening even more. "You had a little girl, Buffy?"_

_"Great," Xander harrumphed loudly, playfully. "Just what we need, G-man, another female in the group."_

_"Well, we certainly didn't need another you," the watcher teased back._

_Buffy's mother, though, ignored the commotion. Moving to her daughter's bedside, she sat tentatively in order to peer down at her new granddaughter. "Tell us everything, honey."_

_"She weighed seven pounds, three ounces, is nineteen inches long, and I'm pretty sure she has the most beautiful baby ever award in the bag."_

_"Well, she certainly has your chin," Joyce whispered, reaching out with one lean digit to trace the baby's face. "And your lips, complexion, and forehead." Teasing a few deeply golden, dark honey locks of the infant's wispy hair, her mother taunted, "not to mention your natural_ _hair color. I'd almost forgotten what that was."_

_Taking a step forward to see for himself, Giles commented, "I'm not sure I've ever seen what that color is."_

_"Very funny, everyone." Employing a mock glare, she turned to her best friends, "what about the two of you? Want to get your potshots in while you can, too?"_

_"Actually, I'm more interested in finding out what someone named Buffy would name their daughter," Xander said._

_"I just became a very young grandmother today," Joyce returned in Xander's general direction, though she refused to take her gaze off of her granddaughter for a single second. "I think that's enough harassment for one afternoon."_

_Ignoring them, Buffy glanced down at her daughter and sighed wistfully as she allowed her gaze to sweep across her little girl's regal nose and high, prominent cheekbones. While her mother might have been able to see her in the baby girl, there was only one person Buffy could see when she gazed upon her child. Without taking her eyes off of her daughter, she eventually whispered, "Ashlinn, Ashlinn Mina Summers."_

_As if recognizing her own name already, the infant opened her eyes, her thick, dark lashes fluttering open to reveal such warm, rich chocolate eyes that Buffy felt her mother gasp beside her. "Oh my goodness," Joyce murmured. "Her eyes... I don't know what I was expecting, maybe green like yours, sweetheart, but..."_

_"Yeah, I know. They're beautiful, aren't they?"_

_"And familiar somehow, too. I could almost swear that I've seen those very eyes before."_

_Laughing uncomfortably, the new mother replied, "mom, brown's the most common eye color. You've probably seen a thousand sets of brown eyes before."_

_"Not that like," Joyce argued._

_Luckily, though, for Buffy wasn't sure how she was going to distract her mother, Willow chose that moment to question her about her little girl's name. "Ashlinn Mina? That's... unusual. Not that I don't like it," her best friend was quick to reassure as she fidgeted nervously with her hands. "I just... how'd you come up with it?"_

_That was a question she was prepared for. "I've always liked the name Ashley, but I didn't want to name my daughter something and risk her having to share her name with half a dozen other little girls in her class, so I came up with something similar yet different enough so that it'd be unique."_

_"And Mina," Xander pressed. "Please don't say you couldn't think of a middle name so you just did eeny-mina-mo."_

_"Haha," she rolled her eyes, not actually laughing. "No. Mina is actually from Wilhelmina which the name Willow is a derivative of. Since Will has been so great these past few months – I couldn't have done this without her, I wanted to honor her somehow."_

_Speechless, Willow gasped, "you named your daughter after me?"_

_"Well, sort of," Buffy said. "No one will know, though, unless we tell them."_

"I'm just glad you didn't decide to honor Giles," Xander stated, picking on the older man. "Nothing good could have come from the name Rupert."

_She could see the watcher preparing to remark, could see how the present discussion could dissolve into mass chaos, and, frankly, Buffy just wanted to be alone again. While she loved her family and appreciated their support, it wasn't everyday that a woman – that a slayer – gave birth, and she wanted to savor every last drop of the experience, knowing that it would never, in all likelihood, ever happen again. Plus, she still had not had the chance to examine her little girl, to make sure that all ten fingers and all ten toes were perfect and symmetrical and baby soft, so, before Giles could return the Xander's jab with a zinger of his own and before her mother could start questioning her once more on Ash's eye color, Buffy feigned a dramatic yawn, causing everyone to flee hurriedly towards the door, calling congratulations, apologizes for staying so long, and well wishes over their shoulders as they left. Within seconds, her hospital room was silent once more._

_Whispering, she confided in her daughter, "I know mommy shouldn't have started off our first evening together by lying, but sometimes – and you'll learn this lesson yourself eventually – little white lies are necessary or, as with this case, big, whopping deceptions, too. While I do like the name Ashley, and while I do appreciated everything Auntie Willow has done for us, that's not why I named you Ashlinn Mina."_

_Unwrapping the blanket her daughter was cocooned in, Buffy continued as she counted each toe and finger, caressed each and every inch of creamy, tender, impossibly soft baby skin, "Ashlinn is the Gaelic word for dream, and I think we both know the significance of that, so there's no need to explain further. As for Mina, it means will, desire, helmet, and protection in Germanic, but that's not important. What is important is that Liam, which was your daddy's birth name and comes from the names William or Uillium, the Irish version, means the same thing. Even if your mommy isn't brave enough to tell your daddy about you yet, that does not mean that you can't know about him. So, I named you after your father, and those eyes your Grandma Joyce was going gaga about, those are your daddy's eyes... and you have his nose and his cheekbones, too. You're the perfect, prettiest combination of the two of us, the best thing we've ever done together... and we did manage to save the world a few times, so that's telling you something."_

_Yawning for real, Buffy slid down in her bed as carefully as she could so as not to jostle either her exhausted form or her little girl. Rewrapping the blanket around her daughter, the two of them closed their eyes at the same time, falling asleep almost immediately._

"Mama," Ash called out, startling Buffy out of her memory. Immediately standing, she fussed with the blankets covering her only child, unsure of what she could do for her but needing to do something so as not to feel useless. The fidgeting also helped her ignore the sheer helplessness found in her daughter's voice, the breathless quality which had not been there even the day before.

"How's that," she asked, smiling widely and finally glancing at her little girl's face, but Ash didn't return the gesture. Instead, she wrapped her little fingers around her mother's, pulling ever so slightly. But Buffy felt the movement, the gesture, and she knew what her baby wanted.

Pushing down on side of the bed's blankets, she then reached out and picked her daughter up, sliding onto the bed with her before lowering her little girl once more, careful of the tubes and wires hooked up to Ashlinn the entire time. Once they were both settled, she retrieved the blankets, covering them both. Closing her eyes, Buffy didn't say a word. Rather, she simply caressed her daughter's hair, the reassuring sweeping motion lulling them both to sleep. It had been a long day, and, contrary to what she'd thought before, maybe they _both _needed the rest.

Right before she drifted off, Buffy realized just how alike the moment was to the day her little girl was born, but, unfortunately, she was still aware enough to recognize all the differences as well. Even in slumber, even in her dreams, she couldn't outrun the future or hide from the truth of her daughter's disease. She just hoped that Ash could.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: Paint's Peeling**

He got to the hospital just as the shifts were switching. It wasn't an ideal time to arrive at such a busy, bustling place, but the distraction of blending in, of melting into the constant stream of living, breathing people who moved in and out of the medical facility helped to distract Angel, and he needed all the distraction he could get his hands on. If left to his own private thoughts, he wasn't sure what he would do, soul or no soul.

Gone all day, scouring the underbelly – quite literally since he traveled through the sewer tunnels and access drains – of his city of choice, Angel had missed Willow's afternoon emergency call and came home hungry, disillusioned, and frustrated to a vague message of dire warning and a request for him to travel to Sunnydale Memorial as soon as he possibly could. It had been a good thing that the bright summer sun had just set, for he fled from his hotel without thought to consequence or reason and immediately left for the one place he'd never be able to forget no matter how long he roamed the earth.

Surprisingly, he obeyed every single minor, irksome traffic law. It wasn't that he feared the effects of an accident, for his body was resilient enough to walk away from just about any collision as long as it was night and he wasn't left to the ravages of the sun, and he certainly wasn't concerned about getting pulled over and receiving a ticket. Rather, he was simply afraid of what he would do if he were pulled over. If some idiot cop tried to prove a point and teach him a lesson about safe driving, Angel knew that there was a definite possibility he wouldn't be able to control himself, and the last thing he wanted was to see Buffy for the first time in years, for perhaps the last time ever, with the blood of an innocent staining his hands and heart. Without that concern weighing him down, he would have risked every single life between Los Angeles and Sunnydale in order to get to the woman he loved, the woman he would always love, sooner.

After parking in the lot, his car not even shaded by the overhanging branches of a pathetically scrawny tree, Angel slipped into the hospital, unconcerned about how he would leave if, by the time he finished with his visit, it was daylight. Based upon the sheer amount of worry, sorrow, and anguish he had picked up on in Willow's voice while listening to her brief message, he had a feeling that he would no longer care about his own safety in a matter of hours. It was the same reason why he hadn't given a thought to his current clients, his friends, leaving the hotel without even a note to explain his sudden absence. Oh, Angel knew that they would worry, especially when they played back the answering machine and discovered where it was he ran off to, but his fear made him selfish, and he just couldn't bring himself to care about their reactions. Hell, Angel felt it was a victory against his own demons that he was still able to think rationally if not slightly emotionally.

He moved through the hospital with ease. Because visiting hours were over and a new shift was arriving to work, the staff that he did encounter seemed to just regard him as one of their own. They might have believed him to be slightly eccentric due to the way he was dressed – leather duster and all; they might have considered him a workaholic... given his pale complexion, an obvious give away that he wasn't spending his day surfing at the beach; and they might have wondered if he was a new hire and whether or not he was single, but they never once stopped his progression or paused long enough to ask him a question. Once he spotted an empty work station, Angel slid behind the staff only counter, accessed the hospital database, and searched for Buffy's room. When he didn't find her name listed as a patient, his still, unbeating heart seemed to wither and compress against itself even more.

Hearing someone coming, he darted into the shadows of the nearest hall, wandering through the abandoned corridor with automatic steps. His mind whirled. His fists clenched. His teeth were set so tightly, so rigidly, even Angel, a vampire of nearly unrivaled strength, felt the tension and strain. If Buffy wasn't listed in the hospital's system, what did that mean? Was she already dead? Was her life so in danger that Giles had felt it wise to cloak her presence and obscure her identity with a fake alias? Or should he have risked discovery and searched for other names? Obviously, Willow was alright, seeing as how she had called him earlier that day, but maybe Buffy needed him there to comfort her... despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other in years. Was it Xander? Or Giles? Or did the woman he loved have somebody new in her...

"Oh, Willow was a bad, bad witch."

Spinning around on the heel of his boot, Angel came face to face with the one person from Sunnydale that he had not missed at all. If nothing else, though, Xander Harris' sudden appearance told him that he wasn't there to hold Buffy as she worried over and grieved for her friend. Though he kept his face entirely neutral, inside he deflated. He would have given just about anything for Willow's sudden call to have been about the man standing across from him. Angel knew it was a horrible thought, but, of all of Buffy's friends and relatives, he liked Xander the least. Maybe it was the fact that they were so dissimilar with only the slayer in common, or perhaps it was his jealousy over the fact that Xander could spend so much time with Buffy – time in the daylight, time that didn't risk the fate of the world, but, whatever the reason, other than feeling bad for Buffy, he wouldn't have lost any sleep over Xander's death, the powers and their damn opinion of him be damned.

"She's got some 'splanin' to do."

They were in a hospital, he was scared out of his mind that Buffy was dying or already dead, and Xander was cracking 'I Love Lucy' jokes. Oh yeah, Angel realized, narrowing his gaze in a glower. Some things in Sunnydale certainly had not changed. "What is going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know," the other man stated, entirely unimpressed by Angel's display of annoyance. "Shuffle along, Deadboy, and follow the yellowed linoleum. You and I have a date with the redheaded wizard who brought you here."

With that, Xander pivoted and marched off, his posture and steps reminiscent of the night he turned into a soldier for Halloween. Angel did as he was told: he followed, but he didn't do it in an effort to appease the younger man or to be cooperative; he simply wanted answers as well, and, since Willow was the one who had called him and Xander knew where Willow was, he was willing to go along so he could find the one person who might be able to give him a straight answer concerning his requested presence in Sunnydale.

They moved at a steady clip, Xander's pace determined yet not desperate. Bypassing the bank of elevators, something Angel was grateful for because he knew it wasn't such a good idea for him to be trapped in a small, confined space just then with somebody he didn't particularly care if they ever saw the light of day again or not, they took the stairs to the floor which housed the ICU, and, after seeing where they were headed for himself, he didn't need to ask why Xander had been aimlessly roaming the halls so late by himself. The other man had simply been moving without thought, functioning by rote activity. He could understand, even sympathize with such behavior.

As they entered a small waiting room, Xander immediately started talking, despite the fact that Willow's back was towards him. "So, care to hazard a guess why I found a vampire wandering the halls?"

Willow responded, "well, this is a hospital, and they have a blood bank... that's like an all you can eat for $5.99 smörgåsbord in monster-speak."

"If the creepy-crawly would have been Spike, I'd say you have a point, but it wasn't." Angel visibly chaffed at the mention of his rival, his irritation ratcheting up another level as soon as he thought about the bleach-blond vampire. Though their relationship had certainly undergone a drastic 180 degree turn about during the past few years, he couldn't say that he particularly liked his grandchild now anymore than he ever had in the past, and despite knowing better, it rankled to hear Buffy's best friends talking about Spike like he had more of a right to be in Sunnydale than he, Angel, did.

Snapping him away from his own brooding jealousies, Xander continued to press his best friend for answers in his traditionally frustrating, roundabout way. "Instead, I found the king of slithering..."

"Kaa?"

"The prince of darkness..."

"Dracula's back?"

_Back? _Given any other set of circumstances, and Angel would have questioned what Willow meant by her reference to Dracula, but, in that moment, all he wanted were some answers concerning Buffy.

"The emperor of evilness..."

"Wow, whoever this vamp is, he must be something special if you feel the need to refer to him so regally," Willow remarked, smirking slightly. It was obvious that she knew whom Xander was talking about, that she had seen Angel lurking in the shadows behind the younger man, and that she was determined to harass her childhood chum.

"More like royally... as in a royal pain in my ass," Xander countered. "Will, why the hell is...?"

Having reached the end of his short rope, his patience fraying dangerously as Willow and Xander continued to spin further and further out of control, Angel exploded, interrupting, "where the hell is Buffy? I checked the computers. She's not listed, but you called me, and you guys haven't asked to see me, haven't asked for my help in years, so...?"

"So, let me get this straight." It was Xander's turn to cut in. "You called He Who Obsesses Much over the Buffster...?"

"Hypocritical much," Willow challenged.

"... told him to bring his undead dead self to Sunnydale, but forgot to mention that it wasn't Buffy who was sick? You do realize how lucky I am that I'm not vampire kibble right now, don't you? Hell, that we're both not vampire kibble!"

Willow simply shrugged, quirked the right corner of her mouth up in a crookedly apologetic grin, and flinched. "Whoops."

Releasing an unnecessary breath, Angel collapsed upon himself emotionally, felt as though the fist around his useless heart had finally been released. "So, she's really okay? She's not sick, she's not dying, or...? She's not hurt?"

"Buffy is... she's physically healthy," Xander assured him.

The younger man moved to stand beside his best friend, clasping her hand as Willow met Angel's gaze and explained her actions. "I'm really sorry, Angel. When I called you, I just... I was acting on instinct, and I guess I didn't think about how you might react to my message. I didn't mean to worry you. I just saw how much Buffy was hurting, and, whether she'd admit it or not, I knew that she needed you here."

Practically ignoring him, Xander spoke as though Angel weren't there, as though he couldn't hear what was being said about and around him. "You do realize she's going to mad at you, right?"

"Nail spitting furious," Willow agreed, "but I'd rather have her angry at me with Angel by her side than speaking to me and alone."

"She's not alone, Will. She has us," Xander said.

She shook her head in disagreement. "It's not the same."

"So, it's Giles then," Angel surmised. "If Buffy's alright, and the two of you are obviously okay, then the only other person who could possibly upset her so much that you'd think that she'd need me here is Giles."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted," the man in question announced as he joined them in the room, sending another shock in Angel's direction and confusing him once more. "While it's nice to know that you think so highly of Buffy's regard for me, the fact that you obviously believe me to be the weak link isn't exactly complimentary, but, as you can see," Giles continued, rolling back his shoulders and standing up straight despite his evidently weary state, "I am perfectly healthy... unless there's something you know that I don't, something you intend to do to me... seeing as how you're so unexpectedly back in town."

"I called him," Willow confessed softly, failing to meet the watcher's intense gaze.

Though it stung to hear Giles' less than stellar opinion of him being expressed so openly, so harshly, Angel knew it was deserved, so he allowed the bitter words to smack against him, to wash over him, to infiltrate past his defenses, but he didn't react. He didn't believe he had a right to defend himself, not against those particular claims, and, more importantly, he would listen to anything anyone had to say about him just so long as he found out what was wrong, why Willow thought Buffy needed him after so long.

Removing his glasses, Giles wiped the lenses furiously as he reprimanded the younger woman. "Do you really think that was the wisest decision, Willow? With everything going on, I fear Buffy won't be able to handle any more stress, and, no matter what he feels for her and she for him, Angel is definitely stress Buffy doesn't need. She's about to lose the most important person in her life, the person she loves more than anyone else, and you thought it would be a good idea to call and ask her ex-boyfriend to come down for a visit?"

It rankled to hear himself referred to as nothing more than just an ex-boyfriend, but what was worse was hearing that Buffy had met someone else, fallen in love, and moved on... just like he had told her to, just like he had deluded himself into believing he wanted her to do. She had found someone who could take her on picnics, admire her in the sunlight, give her babies, and, now, that person was dying, and Willow had asked for him to come and what – hold Buffy's hand while she grieved, and mourned, and suffered the loss of the man – alive and human in every single way he wasn't – that she loved? While there was no doubt in Angel's mind that Willow was stronger than even she believed, he had never thought her capable of cruelty... until that very moment.

"So, Buffy's... her... significant other is dying," he asked. The words were as dead and as lifeless as his body, and they stung with the force of a thousand crosses as they passed his dry, suddenly chapped lips.

"No, but that would serve you right," Xander answered, none too gently. "And a boyfriend who doesn't run the risk of losing his soul and wanting to end the world whenever she gives him a happy is exactly what she needs right now, but we're not talking about another guy, Deadboy, so put all your hemoglobin insecurities aside."

"It's her little girl," Willow whispered, much to his utter confusion.

The first to comprehend his bafflement, Giles queried, "with all your connections, you expect us to believe that you were unaware of the fact that Buffy has a child?"

Rocked back onto his heels, Angel blindly reached out behind him, groping for purchase against the smooth, white walls of the hospital. Once his cool fingers gripped the surface, he used his hold to stay on his feet, swaying slightly as the shock of the revelation cascaded through him. "Buffy... she's a..."

"Mother," Xander filled in for him, continuing needlessly... whether in an attempt to torture and bombard him with mental images and thoughts he wasn't ready for or simply in an effort to babble, Angel wasn't sure. "A mom, a mama, a slayer with a toddler, a single parent, a member of the 'I Survived Childbirth to Complain about It and Feel Superior to Men' Club, a real, honest to goodness adult with all the trappings of responsibility a sensible overgrown child like myself runs screaming and crying away from, a MILF, a..."

"Yeah, I think we get the picture," Willow stopped him from going further, and Angel was sincerely grateful.

"But how is that even...? She's the slayer! She's not supposed to be able to... and alone?"

"She's not alone; she has us," Willow countered. "And you really didn't know anything about this, Angel? I knew that Buffy had never told you herself, but...?"

"I hear things about Buffy occasionally," he confessed, taking a shaky seat in a nearby chair. Willow followed, kneeling before him. "But I try not to. I left. I gave up my right to know about her, to know about her life, and, sometimes, it was easier not to hear her name, because, when I did, it just... it hurt. So, if there was talk about the slayer, I simply stopped listening, tuned the conversation out, and it wasn't like I had to worry about any of my friends mentioning her. Buffy's name is even more taboo for them than Angelus'. Spike would sometimes talk about her, but he was always crude or derisive, and, if he ever heard new information about her or you guys, he kept it to himself."

"Oh, boy," Willow said, sounding overwhelmed. "There's so much you need to find out."

"But, first, I want to see Buffy."

"I'm afraid that's not a very good idea," Giles stated, moving himself so that he was seated beside Angel. Almost reluctantly, Xander followed and sat down on the floor beside his childhood best friend. "Before you go into that hospital room, you need to understand what Buffy is going through – all of it, because, whether I like it or not, it's not up to us to decide if she wants you here with her; it's up to Buffy."

"So then tell me," Angel ordered. He felt restless, and eager, and it felt as though there was a huge weight hanging over his head, simply waiting for a cue to come crashing down to land upon his weary and already overburdened shoulders. Sighing, he reiterated, "tell me everything."

"Well, it's like this: when a boy and a girl like each other..."

"Xander," Willow moaned, hitting the younger man upside the head. "Now is not the time for you to practice giving somebody the sex talk."

"Well, I just thought he might need the birds and the bees explained to him," Xander defended himself. "After all, he's been dead for about a gazillion years. Maybe he's forgotten. I mean, it's not like his bees actually work anymore or anything. Wait. The guy is the bees part... right, because women lay eggs, too... well, kind of, and then there's that whole pollination euphemism. I mean, I think we've all had our stamens go berserk over Michelle Pfeiffer in..."

"Xander!" All three of them – Giles, Willow, and even Angel himself – yelled simultaneously.

"Alright, fine," Xander petulantly pouted. Turning to face Angel, he said, "so, about four and half years ago or so... give or take a few months, Buffy got herself knocked up."

"Oh, dear lord, this is going to take forever," Giles complained, slumping forward to pinch the bridge of his nose.

As Willow and Xander continued on, interrupting each other and completing each other's sentences, he listened attentively, but, in the back of his mind, his thoughts were entirely focused upon the idea of Buffy pregnant, the idea of Buffy with child, on the idea that, if Giles were to have pinched anybody, it certainly should have been Xander.

And the thread of his temper split even more...

? ! ?

She stretched softly, careful not pull a stiff muscle. Smiling softly to herself, Buffy burrowed back under the blankets, enjoying the last few minutes of rest she would have before completely waking. In the haze between sleep and consciousness, she didn't even know where she was, forgot everything but the comfort and warmth of the bed beneath her. The blankets were scratchier, though, than what she was used to, the air stale and sterile, and, with a start, she realized that she wasn't at home in the bedroom she shared with her daughter but, instead, in the hospital.

Forcing her tired, heavy lashes open, she looked out the window directly across from where she was reclined upon Ash's bed and noticed that it was full dark. For a moment, she panicked, believing that she had accidentally slept through a shift. The last thing she needed was to have her health insurance canceled because she was fired for irresponsible behavior. But then she remembered that, when she had brought her daughter in earlier, she had asked Giles to call and either cancel or switch her shifts. Instead of working from three to eleven that day, she was going in the next morning.

Slowly, she eased herself away from her little girl, making sure to not disturb Ash as she slept peacefully... or as peacefully as a terminally ill almost four year old could possibly sleep. When she was standing and assured that her daughter wasn't going to wake, she pulled the blankets up higher, tucking them under the toddler's arms and checking to make sure that the crisscrossing wires and tubes were still where they were supposed to be and functional. Even though they weren't going to save her daughter's life, they were keeping her alive.

Slipping outside of the hospital room, she crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly. Despite the balmy nature of the air outside, Buffy felt cold, the central air turned too high for her taste. Or maybe she was just frozen inside, her fear and numbness controlling her. Preferably, there would have been someone in her life to hold her tight and keep her warm, but she had made her choice to keep the truth from Angel, and she stood by her decision, so she just had to rely upon herself... like always.

She had been meaning to check in with her friends and family, to see if they were still at the hospital or if they had given in to their bodies' demands and retired for the evening, electing to go back home and then return the next day after work. While she hoped that there would be someone there with Ash the next morning and early afternoon while she was gone, Buffy wouldn't allow her own life to encroach any further upon Giles', Willow's, or Xander's, so she refused to ask them to call off for her daughter's sake. Instead of finding them sedately reclined or even gone, she was shocked to see a fourth figure in their midst. For a brief moment, she wished her eyes were deceiving her... like they had before.

_Buffy wasn't sure if no news was good news or bad news, and she was too afraid to ask the doctors. While there was a realistic, warrior part of her which said that at least no one had come up to her to say that her mother was dead, the little girl part inside of her that just wanted her mommy to be okay was terrified. Was the surgery supposed to take so long? What if there were complications? What if her mother woke up but didn't recognize her? Sure, it sounded a little like a made for television movie plot, but stranger things had been known to happen, especially to her and especially in Sunnydale. The tumor itself had been unexpected and a shock._

_Joyce was healthy. Joyce was young. Joyce wasn't supposed to get sick – perhaps even terminally so – when Buffy needed her the most. Selfish or not, she wasn't ready to accept the idea that her mother wasn't superwoman, that her life had a stopping point just like everyone else's. For so long, Buffy had believed that she would be the one to die first, and, even after she had learned that she was pregnant, she sometimes wondered if her child would be raised by its grandmother. If nothing else, she was comforted by the thought that, even if she passed away – killed in the line of slayer duty, a piece of her would survive to comfort her mother and vice versa where her daughter was concerned. After all, if Buffy couldn't raise her own child, then there was no one else she'd rather have there for her baby than her own mom. It was those two thoughts which allowed her to go out and fight every night after her child was born._

_But now her mom was sick. Brain tumor. She was in surgery – fighting to live, and all Buffy could do was stand and pace, sit and fret, chew her nails and bite her lip. She felt helpless, and there was no feeling in the world that she hated more. At least the last time she had experienced such impotence, Angel had been with her, standing and struggling by her side. As soon as the thought entered her mind, though, she banished it. If she went there, if she allowed her mind to go to him, she'd never make it through the day._

_And, then, that's when she saw him._

_Or, at least, for a few achingly perfect yet tenderly terrifying moments, she thought she did. The man was standing at a distance – his strong, muscular form cloaked in all black clothes, and, with his head bent, reading something, she could neither make out his face or recognize him entirely. Quickly, though, she realized her mistake. The man was too tall, his posture was all wrong, and the skin on the back of his free hand too dark. However, he was familiar, and, as Buffy let out a relieved yet regretful sigh, she realized just who it was who was standing there, obviously waiting to see her._

_Approaching him, she asked, "Riley, what are you doing here? The last I heard you were off fighting demons in South America."_

_"Still am... well, at least, the fighting part, but the location always changes. Can't really tell you more than that, though."_

_"Of course not," she responded, far too familiar with the government's clandestine, secretive ways... despite the fact that they were both on the same side, fighting the same impossible battle._

_"Anyway, I was in the area, and I heard about your mom, so I thought that you could use a friend... well, another one." After a beat, he added, "but it looks like you were hoping I was someone else."_

_"No, yes... it's complicated."_

_"With you, Buffy, it always is," Riley said._

_She knew he didn't mean anything else by it, and she found herself smiling in response. He was right. Her life was ridiculously complicated – thorny even one could say – and always changing, so much so, in fact, that, just when somebody got pricked, duty would call her away again, leaving them to either survive or bleed on their own. It was just one thing after another, never allowing her a moment to really rest, and, in that moment, Buffy became aware of just how exhausted she was, and she was glad that Riley was there. He was obviously past his animosity towards her concerning what had happened between them. In fact, if she had to guess, she'd think that he was grateful he'd dodged the bullet named Buffy when he managed to... not that she could blame him. Half the time, she wanted to dodge Buffy, too, but it was a little more difficult when running from oneself._

Oh, what an idiot she had been. Looking back, to think that she had believed herself to be tired before, now Buffy knew exactly what the word exhausted really meant. Nothing in her life up until that point had prepared her for her daughter's disease – not being the slayer, not loving Angel so much he lost his soul, not having to say goodbye to Angel, not losing and then mourning the loss of her mother, not being a young, single parent. Nothing.

And, now, when what she needed was for her world to slow down and become simplified, everything was about to fall apart. All her lies, all her sacrifices, all her deceptions would explode around her if Angel found out the truth. Why he was there, who had called him, how he had found out that someone she cared for was sick and dying, she didn't know, and, until she managed to get rid of him and send him back to Los Angeles where he belonged – far, far away from the agony that was their daughter's impending death, she didn't care. All that mattered at that point was protecting him.

She was about to step forward, about to say and do anything – whatever it took to get rid of him... either angering him into leaving or hurting him into running away – when, with a single sentence, all her hope was decimated. "It's weird, her name: Ashlinn Mina, but, with mother named Buffy, did you really expect Jane or Sarah or something equally simple and American," Xander remarked.

Buffy watched as Angel stood up, took a step towards the seated Xander, his face clouding over with so many emotions – pride, anger, love, hurt, confusion, grief, joy, sorrow – that it became difficult for her to recognize and put a name to all of them. Though she had seen Angel at his best, at his worst, and at all the stages in between, she'd never seen him feel so much in a single moment. "What did you just say," he demanded to know.

"Cut the dramatics, Deadboy. Even you have to admit the Buffster has an odd name."

"No," Angel countered, his voice low and lethal. "What did you say Buffy's daughter's name is?"

"It's Ashlinn Mina," Willow answered for her childhood best friend. "Her middle name is after me."

"Actually," and with that his gaze swung around to pinpoint hers. Somehow, Angel had always known when she was in the same room with him or nearby. "I think it's after her father."

"Angel, we already told you that Buffy has no contact with her daughter's father, that he doesn't even know about the child," Giles argued, sounding impatient.

Still refusing to release their eye contact, he simply said, "not any more."

And then all hell broke loose.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: The Kids are Sick Again**

He wasn't quite sure how he had gotten from the waiting room into his daughter's – _HIS DAUGHTER'S_– hospital room. He recalled his anger, his desperation, his always present sense of unworthiness. Without needing to ask questions, he knew how old his little girl was, he knew when she was conceived and how such a miracle had been possible. There was a fraction of his mind that wondered if Buffy even knew the answers to those questions, but that small part of him was quickly obliterated by everything else he was feeling towards the mother of his only child.

For a moment, he had hated her, something, up until that point, he had believed to be impossible. She was his natural enemy, the woman who sent him to hell, the woman who moved on with her life when he told her to despite his deeply rooted desires that she be unable to. But, mixed in with his animosity, was the always present love Angel felt for Buffy. She had saved him – both his life and his sanity more times than even she was aware of, and, if nothing else was proof that he'd love her forever no matter what, the fact that she had kept a daughter – _their daughter –_from him and he still craved her like blood, redemption, and forbidden sunlight told him everything he needed to know.

Upon his revelation, upon revealing that he was the father of Buffy's child, the rest of the room had exploded in crushing reaction. Giles, forever the pragmatic watcher, had quickly banished his own hurt feelings to focus on the sheer impossibility of a child born to a slayer and a vampire. Xander had raged. Whether it was his pain over being lied to and deceived by someone he considered a part of his family, jealousy, or a combination of both emotions, Angel wasn't sure, but, even in the throes of his own sentimental breakdown, he had been aware of the hateful barbs spewing forth from the younger man's mouth. And then there was Willow. She had just been saddened, obviously believing she and Buffy were closer than two mere friends who kept such vital, important secrets from each other. While he could sympathize with her feelings, he simply had not been capable of caring, not then, not when he himself was wondering how Buffy could keep something so life altering from him.

Even if Ashlinn had not been his daughter, the fact that the woman he loved, would always love, felt that she couldn't tell him that she was a mother was crushing. Yes, since he had left her, they had managed to keep their distance from each other... except for that one cataclysmic, all but forgotten day, but a baby? Surely, there had been enough friendship and respect left between them for her to share that kind of momentous news with him.

And he never would have jumped to the conclusion that Buffy's child was his, not even with the memories of their one solitary day together as a man and a woman completely and utterly in love with each other and able to express that love pounding through his mind with the intensity of a speeding train every single second of every single morning, noon, and night. Such a thing, such a beautiful, miraculous thing would never be given to him. He would never be allowed to know the love and devotion of a child, for he had taken too many innocents from the world to ever deserve to be a father.

Rather, he simply would have congratulated Buffy on her pregnancy, smiling for her while he died a little more on the inside. He would have showered her with presents, campaigned to be named the child's godfather, taken her to a late night Lamaze class if she would have allowed him to; he would have done all those things and more in his fantasies, in his dreams while, instead, in reality, he hid from her even more so than before.

"How did this happen?"

He almost startled himself when the words slipped through his dry lips. Leaning heavily against the pale, wooden door to his little girl's hospital room, afraid to take even a single step further towards her bedside but yet absolutely terrified to leave and take his gaze off of her tiny, perfect face, Angel simply stared. He didn't blink. He didn't pretend to breathe like he usually did when with humans. He stood as still as a statue, as unmoving as a lifeless piece of etched marble. Occasionally, his dark, tear swollen eyes would skitter away from Ash to land hesitantly upon Buffy but only for a moment, and, then, like a yo-yo being pulled back with its string, his stinging orbs would return to his daughter... as if she would disappear if he wasn't looking at her.

So, when he finally spoke, when his words filled the air between the three of them and made the room seem almost too dense and choking to remain in, he was surprised. The question had been almost involuntary. Obviously, somewhere in his mind, he had been desperately needing his inquiry answered, but the words had been formed without his consent, had been set out into the ether without conscious thought. What didn't astonish him, though, was the coldness present in his voice, the almost detached quality he could hear. With his undead heart in such disarray, he had to keep his emotions contained, held inside, because, otherwise, they would have a chance to spill over, drowning him and everything else they came in contact with. Somehow, he had to stay afloat... even if that meant shutting down temporarily.

When she finally answered, Buffy didn't even meet his gaze. Just like his own compulsion to keep Ash always within his sight, Buffy never took her eyes off their daughter. "I don't know. I was eating breakfast, she was asleep, and the next thing I knew... Giles found her not breathing."

_Found? _He wanted to question her words, wanted to shake her and demand to know why, if their little girl was so sick, she hadn't been constantly surrounded by competent medical professional at all times. But then he took in Buffy's defeated posture; the dark, haunted shadows under her lifeless eyes; the clothes her body was swimming in, even with his pain and animosity, he couldn't blame her for the tubes and machines keeping their child alive. If there was nothing else that he knew about her – and he knew plenty, everything, almost nothing, Angel knew that Buffy fought with her every last breath for those she loved, and she loved their daughter. She fought so hard and for so long that she was always willing to die if it meant the people she cared for lived instead. It was just one thing they had in common

Clearing his throat of some of its tense friction, he said, "no, not that... this. I meant how did this happen to her at all?" Running trembling fingers through his already tousled and disorderly hair, Angel demanded to know. "I mean, you're _the slayer_, and I'm a souled _master vampire_, a _champion_... or so I'm told. Our child should be healthy, bursting with strength and vitality. She shouldn't be..."

"Dying." Silence slammed down between them, Buffy ceasing his previous flow of words with her stark answer, her unfortunately brutal truth. After several seconds, she twisted in her seat to face him but not before slipping her pale, trembling hand into the ever smaller, paler version of their daughter's, her lean, nimble digits careful of the wires without even having to check in their direction to see where they were. Shrugging her shoulders, she answered, "that day, when we made her, you weren't a souled master vampire anymore, and I was just..."

"A normal girl falling asleep in the arms of her normal boyfriend," Angel finished, her words from that fateful afternoon spilling from his lips like water flowing over a set of falls.

As he watched Buffy flinch, though, he regretted his moment of remembrance, just as he, once more, found himself wondering just how much she knew of that forgotten day. Did she flinch because she knew exactly how poignant his words really were, or did she flinch because his response triggered a brief flash of recollection, of yearning for something that once was but that he took away forever? But just then, standing in the hospital room of his dying daughter – _their dying daughter,_was not the time to delve into a past that could not be altered again, nor was he sure he was ready for such a potentially shattering conversation. In that moment, all he could focus on, all he could think about was Ash and her disease.

"It's called tay-sachs," Buffy started. When her slender shoulders squared as though she was going into yet another life or death battle, he felt his own cave in as he slouched down to sit upon the floor, his back still resting against the room's door. Next, she laughed, but the sound held no humor and was in fact chilly with bitterness and barely controlled animosity. "It's funny, really. I mean, it should have been impossible for our daughter to get tay-sachs disease, but that's just the way my life goes, right? Ten years ago, flighty, rude, self-absorbed cheerleader me would have laughed if someone said I was destined to be the one girl in all the world who would fight the vampires, and the demons, and all things evil, but here I am anyway: not so flighty, probably just as rude, but definitely not so self-absorbed, and definitely not a cheerleader... just like Ash is dying from a disease she never should have been born with.

"It's genetic, usually found in those of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, Cajun descent, French-Canadian descent, but guess what? I'm none of those things, and you're so Irish, I'm surprised you don't bleed green."

"So, one of us was the carrier," he asked, almost afraid to interrupt her haltingly vicious explanation but confused enough to do so.

"Actually, we both are. If only one parent is a carrier, then the baby will only be a carrier as well. It takes too parents to tay-sachs tango, and, lucky Ash, we, apparently, are Latin ballroom champions when it comes to disease transference. I mean, seriously! We slept together..."

"Made love," he corrected quietly but desperately.

She ignored him. "... during a day that _you _erased from my mind, from my memory, from the memories of every single person who might have known what we did together, and, still, we managed to curse our child with this disease that doesn't even make sense for us to be able to curse her with. With our genetics, though, she had a 25% chance, and, knowing us, we probably did it more than four times that day, so you do the math."

"Buffy..."

"Don't," she ordered him, and her tone left no room to argue. "I just... give me a minute, okay?"

The memory slammed into him so harshly, so abruptly, he was surprised he didn't pass out.

"_Give mother a minute, okay, Liam, and I promise we'll go into town."_

_His mother was crying, so he didn't fight her on her request, and, even at just six years old, he knew the graveyard wasn't a place to throw a tantrum or act stubbornly... like he usually would. If they had been anywhere else, he would have pouted, demanded to go to town immediately, but even he felt tears well in his bright, round eyes as he stood there by his mother's side, and even he needed a moment to think, to grieve, to wonder._

_Before him sat three graves. Death wasn't a foreign concept to him. People – old people, young people, strange and familiar people – died all the time in their little village. Sometimes, there were accidents, but, more often than not, death came from illness. A simple cough could turn deadly within a matter of days. One never knew when life would be snatched from their grasp, when they might be the next one to be buried in the cold, dank ground._

_Liam believed that was why he always failed at listening to his father. While his father wanted him to act like a young man, to study hard in school and want to follow in his footsteps as he managed their modest yet healthy estate, Liam wanted to play. After all, his three brothers were already dead. Surely, he'd be the next to go, and, when he did, he wanted to make sure that he went out having fun. Besides, he was only six, a child still... even in their humble town, and, frankly, he had no interest in his sums, or in learning which crops grew the best in their soil, or in pleasing his father. Rather, he loved to read, and draw, and roam the woods in search of adventure and a new land where babies didn't die and his mother didn't always look so sad._

_His older two brothers he didn't remember. Though he had been alive when they passed on – both of them sick with the same disease, he did remember his little brother Connor. Connor had been everything Liam wasn't – bright, well behaved, the apple of their father's eye. Instead of favoring their mother's complexion and looks, Connor had looked just like their father, and he had possessed the same serious, down to earth personality as well. Unlike Liam who was accused of having his heads in the clouds, Connor was a son to make a strict, business-minded father proud, and, when he passed away, just like Patrick and just like Sean, Liam knew his father was beyond disappointed; he was angry, and a part of him blamed Liam for Connor's death, believed it should have been Liam who died instead._

_A part of him believed so, too. That guilt, though, wasn't enough to make him change his ways. In fact, instead, he seemed to become even more obstinate. He would leave for school in the morning but turn in the opposite direction once he was out of his mother's sight. He would hide from home, skipping his chores, and spend his time laying on his back, watching the sky, and thinking... just thinking about anything and everything he could imagine: scary monsters and gallant knights, pretty princesses who needed rescuing and adventures far beyond the possible, of what death might finally be like._

_And now his mother was with child again. Would it be another son to reach their father's expectations only to die and disappoint him once again, or would it be a little girl who would be a blessing to their mother but a mark against their father's male pride? And, no matter what the child might be, would it survive unlike Sean, and Patrick, and Connor, finally forcing it to be Liam's turn to go into the earth once and for all, or would it, too, die like all the others? As he stood there, gazing at his brothers' graves, Liam wasn't sure which one of those outcomes he preferred, and that's what made him cry._

"I had more siblings than just Kathy." His sudden admission brought Buffy's gaze back up to his own, and he found himself drowning in the muted green depths of her eyes, eyes so much the color of Ireland sometimes he would feel homesick. "There were four of them, all brothers, and they all died long before I had a chance to kill them. The two oldest, I don't remember. They both died when I was just a baby myself, but I remember Connor, and I remember Gerald. Connor died when he was four. I was six. And Gerald lasted until he was five, longer than the other three, but, still, my mother had to bury him as well.

"They were like my father – quiet, hard working, proper... even as children, and they were everything he wanted in an heir, everything that I wasn't, but they died. All of them. First, they'd start to lose their eyesight or maybe their hearing, then they'd have these spells where they'd shake, and their eyes would roll up so that all that was visible were the whites of their eyes."

"Seizures," Buffy murmured, all too familiar with the ravages of the disease he was relating. The single word was said quietly, though, not meant to distract or interrupt but just to inform, to sympathize.

"Eventually, they'd become paralyzed. Gerald lost his mind, became insane. Connor never did learn to talk. I don't know how bad it got with Patrick or Sean before they died. My mother would simply cry when someone mentioned their names, and my father would glare at me, like it was my fault because I was spared and they weren't. Even from birth, I was a disappointment. I was a colicky baby, fussing and temperamental, demanding of my mother's time when she had two other terminally ill children to tend to. But she loved me anyway, unlike my father, and maybe that's why I took after her, why I would rather sit and watch her bake instead of going out to tend to the fields with my father.

"So, I guess that's how Ash... at least, from my side. It's been so many years, I forgot about their deaths, about the disease which nearly destroyed my family. Not that we had a name for it back then, but... Tay-sachs, huh? It doesn't seem ugly enough of a word to really describe what it is, what it does, how it...

… _kills_.

He wasn't ready yet to say such a thought out loud, though, so, instead, Angel allowed his sentence to drop, unfinished, and, that time, Buffy didn't complete it for him. He was thankful. Needing a distraction, though, he switched gears so abruptly that he could see the sudden distress and confusion wash across her face. "With everything... how did you manage slaying? How did you manage the Hellmouth... without me?"

She winced, her gaze skittering timidly away from his, and Angel immediately braced himself for her answer. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn't going to like it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: Metal Heart**

_Angel was a smart... demon, at least relatively so, no thanks to his years living as a human. While simply Liam, he had been disinterested in anything his father deemed necessary and important, so he had only managed to retain the knowledge his tutors had drilled into his mind, those certain facts and skills that at some point simply become an innate part of a person's consciousness. He certainly didn't study, and he had never read for pleasure's sake. No, he had preferred to lose himself in other, more tangible diversions._

_However, once he had been turned and especially after he regained his soul, learning had become a joy rather than a burden. With so many facets of life forbidden to him, Angel escaped from his misery through books, diving through and into knowledge as a way to forget who he was and, more accurately, what he was. Unlike his human counterparts, though, he didn't age, so, therefore, he was able to retain all the information he read and absorbed for as long as he survived._

_He would say for as long as he lived, but Angel knew such an expression didn't accurately describe the last two hundred or so odd years of his existence._

_Anyway, it was because of this appreciation for knowledge that he could recall the exact definition of the term brooding. To brood, among other less likely definitions, meant to think or worry moodily, to ponder, to dwell on a subject or to meditate with morbid persistence. Not that he hadn't been aware of the term beforehand, but, after listening to his friends and coworkers constantly accuse him of the action, he had looked it up, memorized it, and then immediately dismissed their claim._

_Yes, on occasion, he did those things – he thought and worried moodily, he pondered, he dwelled upon a subject and meditated with morbid persistence, but, generally, when Cordelia accused him of brooding, he was actually doing nothing of the kind. Rather, after existing in the world for more than two centuries and retaining each and every single moment of his undead life perfectly in his memory, when Angel sat quietly in his office – he was told a faraway, distanced gleam to his dark eyes, he was actually trying to forget his thoughts, those sights and sounds that haunted him day in and day out from his past._

_In order to do that, he had to shut everything else out. On some days it was easier to escape his own mind than others. Certain stimuli made certain memories more clear and harder to push past, and, of course, Buffy and all the moments he had shared with – and even some without her – were the hardest to temporarily forget. In some ways, she was always with him – teasing him, taunting him, making him yearn for things that were impossible and painful to even want, and, though thoughts of her were his greatest comfort, they were also his greatest agony. Sometimes, in order to think rationally, he even needed to leave behind his memories of the woman he loved, the woman he was and always would be in love with._

_It was in one of those quiet, self-preserving moments that Wesley found him when he ambled carelessly into Angel's office, the former watcher and self-proclaimed rogue demon hunter already too lost in the conversation he had planned in his head and had started the moment he stepped through the doorway to realize his boss' distraction. Reluctant to leave his solitude yet, Angel fought to ignore Wesley, blocked out the other man's presence and words, strived to remain aloof and disinterested, but, eventually, one word found its way past his guard, and, with the syllables of that one word ringing carelessly in his ears, all his efforts ceased, and his attention became riveted entirely upon his... friend._

_"... Sunnydale that has me both rather intrigued and alarmed. In fact, I'm not sure which of my reactions has been more powerful, really. On one hand, the mere idea is fascinating as well as long overdue, I dare say, but, at the same time, is it the right step? Should we be accepting of such an overture into our world or frightened by it? And, perhaps more importantly, can such a_

_thing even be trusted? Like with everything else that we encounter, I believe this will take extensive research to understand and then judge. Unfortunately, however, that could be easier said than done. They're notorious for being secretive, and I hardly possess the proper clearances to access that kind of information, let alone..."_

_Interrupting, for his patience had long since unraveled, Angel demanded, "what, Wes; what are you talking about?"_

_"Oh, yes, of course. I momentarily forgot myself and the fact that you're still unaware of this latest development. Please, accept my apologies. It won't happen..."_

_"Just tell me already," he snapped, stopping what he knew would turn into yet another frustrating ramble._

_Swallowing thickly while he nodded in subservience, Wesley stated, "a government agency has taken up residence in Sunnydale. Apparently, they are capturing, researching, and chipping..." At Angel's questioning, raised brow, Wes expanded, "inserting behavior adaption pieces inside of demons' brains in order to prevent them from harming humans. In fact – and you might get a jolly good laugh out of this just as I did, apparently, according to the latest news along the demon grapevine, William the Bloody, otherwise known as Spike whom I believe is your Grand Childe or, well, Angelus'... at least, has been one of the demons this group which, by the way, calls itself The Initiative, has experimented upon. According to what I've been able to piece together, this chip emits a painful surge through the brain whenever a demon even approaches harming a human. It's all rather revolutionary, though I'm unsure whether or not such actions could be considered ethical let alone moral."_

_Before Wesley could expand upon his thought and delve into a solo debate upon the pesky quagmires of human morals when battling a soulless and moral-less foe, Angel asked, "so, they're not killing the demons they capture?"_

_"Apparently not. From what I've been able to piece together, those who don't manage to escape, like Spike, are retained and drugged in some sort of governmental base or bunker beneath the town."_

_"So, all these demons are, for a lack of a better term, simply being stored together? Drugged or not, what if they escape en masse? I highly doubt they're going to be of the let's forgive and forget mindset. Plus, you said that this group, this Initiative, is researching the demons. What exactly are they trying to find out? If they're evil, you stake them, you behead them, you break their necks; if they're not evil, then you let them go and use them occasionally for information. I've had contact before with a government group interested in demons, and, to put it simply, they weren't interested in eradication of them; they wanted to use them to their own advantage. If this group isn't killing the demons, I'd almost bet that they were up to something similar as the group I unfortunately became involved with years ago."_

_"Well, yes, I can see your point," Wesley murmured, obviously unsettled by everything that had been said. After several silent moments, though, he looked up to meet Angel's gaze. "However, be that as it may, if you're correct... and I'm not saying you are, then why is the slayer working with this group? I highly doubt Buffy would be party to anything that you are suggesting."_

_For several moments, Angel simply couldn't react... at least, outwardly. He contained the feelings and thoughts that were raging inside of him, refusing to allow his employee to see what hearing Buffy's name and of what learning of her involvement with the government group did to him. Such public displays of emotion simply weren't his style, and he knew that, if he did express his feelings, he would only add to Wesley's concern. So, instead, he forced down his disbelief that Buffy was allowing even more innocent civilians to become involved with her fight against evil, he_

_banished his concern and fear for her, and he hid away his hurt that she had not contacted him herself with the information and, instead, made him learn of it from Wesley of all people._

_"No, you're probably right. I'm sure it's nothing. If it was something," Angel responded to Wesley's insights, "then Buffy wouldn't allow them to help her."_

_It had only been a few months since they had last seen each other, since the day that never was, but never before had Angel felt so far away from the woman he loved._

Shaking away his thoughts, for, if distance had separated them all those years before, then it now felt as though they were strangers emotionally, Angel answered his own question. "The Initiative – that government group that came to Sunnydale years ago, that's how you were able to control the Hellmouth while you were pregnant... without asking for my help."

"It's not like you weren't busy yourself, what off saving everyone in Los Angeles. Would you have even had enough time for me?"

His next words escaped through harshly clenched teeth. "Don't go there, Buffy." Seemingly at an impasse – she glared at him while he glowered back at her, neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally, after years of being kept in the dark, Angel couldn't wait another moment for the answers he needed, so he caved first, demanding to know, "and afterwards? After you had the baby?"

"The leader of the group – a woman by the name of Doctor Maggie Walsh – was eventually exposed. She was conducting research upon the demons her men captured and then using them to create a prototype of a super-soldier, her own demon souped up G.. When she was demoted, sent to jail, put into a time out... I don't know what the government does when one of their own gets in trouble, the group sort of fell apart. Those who still wanted to keep fighting against evil left. Riley left, too, but that was mainly my fault. By that time, though, I had already given birth and was back to slaying full-time."

"Riley," Angel questioned, picking up on the unspoken undertones and meanings beneath her words. Though Buffy's mentioning of the soldier was casual, her words and the mere sound of her voice told him that her relationship with the soldier had been anything but professional. "So, that's what was really going on; that's why you allowed them to know about you, to work with you, why you turned a blind eye on the things that they were doing?"

"If you have something to say, just say it," she demanded.

"You didn't allow The Initiative to help you because of our daughter; you allowed it because you were dating one of their soldiers."

Snapping, Buffy defended, "it wasn't like that."

"Then tell me what it was like."

"Frankly, I don't think that it's any of your business, Angel, so, if you don't mind..."

"Except I do mind, and, if it's about you or especially about our daughter, then it is my business. So, you can either tell me yourself, or I'll go out and I'll ask whoever I can find who will talk to me – Willow, Xander, Giles, hell even Willy. I'm sure he'd be a real fount of information, full of colorful little anecdotes only a scumbag like Willy could fully appreciate."

"Fine, you win," she relented, shifting uneasily on her uncomfortable hospital chair. Avoiding his gaze and focusing her own upon their daughter, Buffy started to talk, her voice so soft that, even with his advanced sense of hearing, he had to strain in order to hear her. "Maggie Walsh wasn't just the leader of The Initiative; she was also my psychology professor, and Riley was her T.A.. We became friends, saw each other in class and around campus, and that probably would have been it, but, as you know, no matter how many demons live here, Sunnydale is a small town. Because we were fighting against the same enemy, we kept running into each other under awkward circumstances, and, eventually, it got to the point where we couldn't deny the fact anymore that we both knew about the monsters that everyone else either didn't see or pretended not to."

Before she continued, Buffy turned to face his direction, her eyes sparking with suspicion and knowledge. "What," Angel questioned, almost defensively.

"You already knew about the group. Before I could answer your question, you answered it yourself. How did you even know about The Initiative?"

"Demons gossip, too, Buffy," Angel told her, somewhat snidely. "Besides, after they chipped Spike, who do you think he eventually ran to for help, huh?"

Visibly, she deflated. Although he wasn't sure why, Angel could sense her disappointment, almost as though she had been hoping for a different answer, perhaps one where he would have admitted to spying on her, checking up on her activities and life. He would have pursued his line of thought further if she didn't interrupt his mind by saying, "I just can't believe Spike kept his mouth shut about Riley. He knew that we were... friends."

"Spike knew that, if he wanted my help, then he wasn't supposed to even mention your name. Eventually, after I punched him enough, he quit trying. However, when he left, he must not have known about your condition, because there's no way he would have been able to keep that to himself."

Buffy shrugged. "It took me a while to realize what was going on. But that's not what you asked about; you wanted to know about Riley."

"And your involvement with The Initiative," he reminded her.

He watched as Buffy smirked. "Of course. How could I forget?" He didn't rise to the bait of her rhetorical question. "Anyway, when we realized that we were both fighting the same battle... so to speak, at first, we were leery of each other. I didn't trust him, and he didn't like the fact that, as the slayer, I was stronger than he and all his men put together. Eventually, though, it just made more sense for us to work together, and then I found out that I was pregnant, and their involvement sort of became necessary."

He wanted to point out that she was wrong. There had been other options available to her that she had either chose to ignore or simply dismissed. First and foremost, she could have asked for his help, but that would have meant telling him about her pregnancy. Though Angel wanted to know why she had kept something so amazing, so wonderful, so important to herself, they had to get through one point of contention at a time. Secondly, she could have worked to get Faith out of jail rather than resort to counting on outside, civilian help, but he knew better than to suggest such an idea, and he also knew why Buffy never would have gone to her sister slayer all those years ago in the first place. So, instead of saying anything, he remained silent and simply allowed her to continue.

"As for my relationship with Riley, I'm not even sure you could call it that. He was nice, and I know that he had feelings for me. He was everything that you told me I should want – a normal guy who could take me into the light, take me on picnics, and give me babies... only, after a few dates, I realized that you hadn't been so incapable of that last thing, and we broke it off. He was pretty bitter," she admitted wistfully, evidently regretting either the end of her relationship with the soldier or, at least, how it ended. "And he was angry with me, too, because, technically, in a way, I guess I had sort of cheated on him, though, in my defense, at that point, we were basically just talking about seeing each other. Nevertheless, though, he stayed to help, but that was more because it was his job, his duty than the fact that he was concerned about a knocked-up slayer."

"And after they left," Angel wanted to know.

"Things basically returned to normal. I patrolled, sometimes the gang went out with me, and either Giles, Willow, Xander, or Mom... before she died... stayed in with Ash. There have been the usual minor big bads and a few major ones, but we dealed, dealt. Whatever. Basically, it was the usual: Sunnydale at it's finest... or worst, depending upon your point of view, and the slayer and her friends simply trying their best. You know what it's like."

"And through all of that – dealing with a government demon hunting group, minor big bads, major big bads, and losing your mom – you never once thought, 'oh gee. Maybe I should call and tell Angel that I had a kid, that I had _his _kid?"

"Oh, would you look at the time," Buffy said, standing abruptly, nearing knocking her chair down in her effort to escape both his question and the room. Still glancing at her watch, she exclaimed, "time to go make the dough."

"It's make the donuts, and what are you talking about?"

"Uh... I have to go to work," she replied sarcastically... as though he was the one who sounded inept in that moment.

"Buffy, our daughter is lying in a bed, literally dying before our eyes, and you're going to go to work?"

"Don't," she warned him frostily, advancing several steps in his direction menacingly before stopping and backing down somewhat. "Don't even think that you get to stroll in here and start questioning me as a mother. I work to pay the bills. I work to keep a roof over our daughter's head and to put food on the table. And I work to make sure that she has medical insurance. After all, someone has to."

With that, she pushed him aside before disappearing through the hospital room's doorway, leaving Angel angry, hurt, slightly regretful, and with even more questions than when he had first arrived. But, other than follow Buffy to her place of employment and demand that she talk to him there, there was nothing he could do about finally obtaining the answers he needed so much until she returned, nothing but sit by his daughter's bedside, hold her hand, and watch her without blinking just to make sure that she didn't disappear when he wasn't looking.

He had just found her, his little Ashlinn; he wasn't ready to let go of her yet.

And he feared he never would be.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: Heavy Water**

"Let me guess, Giles got hit in the head. Again. And the Scoobies called you so they could rest their heads upon your shoulders, because, let's face it, they're wide enough for all three to be nice and comfy at once. No? Alright, then it was Willow, and she suddenly changed her sexual preference again, deciding to go off lesbian witches for a while, but, instead of returning to mute werewolves, she thought she'd go for vampires with multiple personalities? Of course, it always could have been Xander. Everybody knows that freakazoid ex of mine loves to find himself the creepy-crawly girlfriends. Whether it's bugs, mummies, or thousand year old nymphos, he's game. Tell me why I dated him again? Anyway, moving on... much like I did so many years ago, thankfully... Last but not least, it could have been the chosen one herself. What'd Buffy do this time? Break a nail? Get a another bad hair cut? Die again?"

"That's not funny, Cordelia," Angel growled. No matter how angry he was with Buffy, hearing those words – 'die again' – from his best friend's lips sent his heart ricocheting into his throat and his soul spiraling out of control.

"Well, maybe if those wacky weirdos wouldn't be so needy..."

A hundred miles away, and he could still see Cordelia roll her eyes as she complained. He felt her petulant perturbation and just a hint of jealousy rolling in waves through the phone line, and Angel had to interrupt her before she could say anything more to further annoy him. The truth of the matter was that he needed someone to be on his side. While Buffy had her family by her side, fairly clogging the halls of the hospital with their sympathy and pity, he had no one, and, although he was used to preferring the solitude, his emotions were too unstable after discovering Ash and learning about her disease to survive the night without someone to talk to. So, after Buffy left for work, he had remained in the hospital room for as long as he could before running away, running outside to use his cell phone and call L.A..

"I have a daughter."

The air went out of his friend's lungs in one loud, shocked whoosh. After several beats of tense, awkward silence, Cordelia yelled, "damn it, Angel. That's something you have to lead a girl into. You can't just drop that kind of bombshell and expect me to react properly and say the right thing just like a wind up monkey. I'm a person, you know, with emotions, and feelings, and... and whatever else there is that makes us act accordingly." He could have pointed out the fact that she was the one who cut him off before he could even say hello, and he might have asked her just how exactly she wanted him to lead into something so astonishing, but, instead, Angel remained quiet, allowing her the chance to rant... for the second time in their reasonably short phone conversation. "Wait a second," she broke into her own thoughts. "That's not... vampires can't have babies."

Taking a seat on the sidewalk's curb, Angel sighed and took a deep breath despite not having an actual need for such a mundane action. "Yeah, well, and we also thought it was impossible for vampires to become human again, too."

Cordelia groaned. "This is one of those times when I find myself really missing Doyle. He'd know exactly what to say to you, whereas I, frankly, am still feeling pretty freaked out." She laughed then, preventing his grief towards his lost friend before it could even begin to flow. "Plus, you know he'd have some whisky stashed somewhere close by, and, as he taught me, Angel-Buffy drama goes down much easier with a toast or twenty."

"Very funny."

He could hear the smirk in her voice when she said, "I thought so. Now, give me a minute to sit down and then tell me what happened."

Although he had no reason to think that she had left the hotel, Cordelia suddenly sounded farther away, like she was underground in the sewers talking to him or somewhere in the Hollywood Hills where her cell phone reception wasn't as good. "Are you alright?"

"Despite the fact that your little announcement took five years off my life and, I think, gave me premature wrinkles around my eyes, yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You just sound... different."

"Oh, I put you on speaker."

Now, he was worried that he really had shocked his friend. "You're that upset that you can't hold a phone?"

"No, of course not," Cordelia disputed immediately with a slight scoff to her tone. "I just can't paint my nails and talk to you at the same time if one of my hands is otherwise occupied. Geesh! Self-involved much, Angel? Yeah, at first, you're little fatherhood announcement caught me off guard, but I'm pretty sure that, at this point, there's nothing you and Buffy could do together that would truly surprise me. I mean, you've both died and come back to life, you bit her, she tried to kill another slayer for you, you gave up your humanity for her, you..."

"Alright, Cordelia, I get your point."

"Whatever. Just tell me what's going on. I'm guessing this miraculous conception occurred back when you lost the fangs for a day and started humping like bunnies for twenty-four hours. I'm telling you, nothing ever good happens when you and Buffy go horizontal."

Apparently, all his perverse instincts did not flee when his soul was in residence, because, in response, Angel heard himself say, "we weren't always horizontal, Cordy."

"Ew!"

Continuing, he told her, "and never say that my daughter isn't a good thing."

"Point taken and I'm sorry, but you do get what I meant, right?"

"Yes, I do, but..."

When he allowed his sentence to lag unfinished, she picked up the conversation's reins. "So, you turned back time, erased the day, but, for some reason, Buffy still walked away with her ego muy preggo. Obviously, seeing as how that was almost five years ago, she never said anything to you until now, so something must seriously be wrong if she called you to Sunnydale and told you about your secret love-child."

"She didn't call me. Willow did."

"Oh, crap."

As if she had never said a word, he pressed on, undaunted. "And, if that wasn't bad enough, she's dying. My daughter – who, before today, I didn't even know existed – is dying, and there's nothing I can do to save her. Hell, I can't even do anything to ease her pain."

"Angel, I'm sure it's not that bad. I mean, there's always hope, right? Think about all those infomericals you watch at night, you know the ones that constantly sucker you into spending all our money on bald kids dying of cancer. If there's hope for them, there's hope for your daughter."

"She has tay-sachs disease, Cordelia."

"Yeah, if I had a medical degree, do you really think I'd be working for you?"

Despite himself, Angel shook his head in amusement, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a melancholy grin. "It's a genetic disorder. There's no cure. She's lucky to still be alive at this point. Many kids with tay-sachs don't live to see four years, and almost all are dead by the age of five."

"I know this really doesn't help matters at all, but I'm so sorry, Angel."

"That's why I called you," he told her. "Buffy has all these people beside her – Giles, Willow, Xander, and they're all so concerned about how she's going to handle losing _our _little girl, but she's had years to get used to the idea, to make her peace with it."

"I really don't think this is something a mother can make peace with."

Ignoring Cordelia, he snapped, "and what about a father? I had to find out that I had a daughter the very same day that I found out that she's going to die, that she might not even wake up tomorrow morning. And the worst part is that it wasn't even Buffy who told me. I had to learn about it from someone else. Do you know..."

This time, it was her turn to interrupt him. "Do you know how familiar this conversation is starting to sound? It's like deja-freaking-vu, but that can't be right. But wait! It is deja-vu, because you said the same exact crap the last time Buffy's world fell apart and Willow was the one to call and tell you about it, not your precious slayer," Cordelia snarked. "'I can't believe Joyce was sick and Buffy never told me. I can't believe that she died, and I had to learn about it from someone else. Do you know how much that hurts, Cordy?' Is any of this ringing any bells, big guy?"

It was.

_He wasn't sure how he managed to hang up the phone without crushing it. Without throwing it across the room. Without losing control. But, somehow, he did. Softly, almost tenderly, as if the cordless device that had just brought him the news of Buffy's mother's death was actually the woman he loved, he replaced it in its cradle before leaning back, closing his eyes, and struggling to react. It felt as though he was being torn asunder, split into fractured, unrecognizable pieces, and he didn't know how to respond._

_Whereas a part of him was mourning Buffy's loss, feeling her pain and sorrow despite the miles that separated them, another part of Angel was drowning in his own sense of grief, too. It didn't matter that they had been living apart for years. The fact that she could lose someone so important to her and not reach out to him hurt. It hurt worse than leaving her in the first place, than remembering all the death dispatched by his own hands over the last two and half centuries. Surely, if she loved him as much as he loved her, she would have wanted him there with her, by her side, but, apparently, she didn't, and that's where his anger surged forward to trump his disappointment and regret._

_It choked him, made him feel as though the borrowed blood churning in his veins was on fire and seeking a means to escape his body. Bitterly, he realized that his ire not only mirrored his soulless counterpart's rage but surpassed it as well, and a small, still functioning part of Angel wondered if he'd be able to get past such animosity. Would he drown in it? Wallow in it? Lose himself in its deceptive allure and allow it to destroy his sanity once and for all?_

_Bubbling over, he shot to his feet and swept a taunt arm and clenched fist out across his desk, pushing everything littering the antique surface to the floor in one loud, disjointed crash. Picture frames broke – the smashing glass reminiscent of his shattered heart, papers swirled in chaotic disarray, and his desktop clock ticked its last second as it landed and struck the unforgiving floor. However, the destruction did nothing to ease his pain or his frustration._

_"Oh, now this is wonderful," Cordelia groused sarcastically as she stepped into his office to survey the damage he caused and to see what had made such a ruckus of noise. "Just when I thought you couldn't behave any more immaturely, you go from a moon-eyed teenager in love for the first time – the age you've been stuck at now since Sunnydale... unfortunately happened to both of us, to a petulant, temper-tantrum throwing five year old. I swear, if you suddenly find yourself needing to wear adult sized diapers, I'm out of here for good."_

_"Now is not a good time."_

_"Really, Mr. I-State-the-Obvious? Like I couldn't see that for myself." Rolling her eyes, she asked, "what crawled up your dead-ass and died?"_

_"Buffy's mother died."_

_"Yeah, I know. Willow called to tell me."_

_Curling his lips into a sneer, Angel barked, "she called me as well."_

_"Okay, so? And the problem would be what exactly? Look," Cordelia started to answer her own question for him. "I get that you and Buffy have your whole modern day, paranormal version of Romeo and Juliet going on, but you didn't kill her mom – relief number one, and she's tough – relief number two. She'll get through this, Angel. She'll be okay. However, your office won't if you decide to go all Conan The Barbarian on it again, so chill out already."_

_"The problem is that Willow was the one to call me, too. Not Buffy."_

_"Oh, boy." Collapsing into a chair with a tired, exasperated sigh, Cordelia's tone went from annoyed to downright aggravated. "Let's take yet another trip down memory lane, shall we? You left her. You gave Buffy the old heave-ho." Before he could interject, she held up a hand to stop him. "And, yeah, I get that you think you did that for her own good, and maybe you did, but that doesn't change the fact that it was your decision to walk out of her life. When you broke up with Buffy, you gave up your right to be so territorial over her, so possessive. You're no longer her boyfriend, Angel. It'd be wrong if, when her life started to fall apart, she turned to you. No matter what you're feeling right now, this is what you wanted, remember?"_

_When he still didn't respond, she continued. "You wanted her to live a normal life, right? Well, calling up her vampire ex-honey because her mom died and needing to lean on his cold shoulder doesn't exactly scream normalcy. She's just doing what you told her you wanted when you made your unilateral decision all those years ago. Plus, let's not forget your unilateral decision number two, because, if you had elected to remain human, you'd already be there with her. You would have been there holding her hand through Joyce's illness. You would have been there to help her pick out her mom's casket. And you'd be there beside her when she buries her mother tomorrow in the sunlight. But you didn't, so now you can't, and that also means that you can't get mad at her when she doesn't turn to you for comfort. You made these decisions for the both of you, Angel. Now, you have to learn how to live with them."_

If Cordelia's harsh truths had stung then, they downright ripped him apart now that he recalled their forgotten conversation from not so long ago in the past. But, before he could truly absorb the memories and accept what his friend had told him once more, she kept right on talking. "What Buffy did, Angel – keeping your daughter from you, was wrong. You deserved to know the truth. You deserved to be there with Buffy through her pregnancy, you deserved to enjoy all the time that you've lost with your little girl, but, at the same time, I also think that Buffy's actions were justified, too."

"Oh, really," he snapped, now upset not only with Buffy and her family but also with the one person he thought he could count on to support him and his hostile feelings. Cordelia had never liked Buffy, always ridiculed her, and she had to choose that moment to jump on the slayer bandwagon. "How so exactly?"

"Because you gave her up, Angel." Although the words were nothing he had not heard before, nothing that he hadn't told himself a thousand times already, he knew that what would come from Cordelia's mouth next would be. "Think about it from her perspective: if you didn't want her enough to even attempt to be with her when you were human and everything the two of you had been wishing for, dreaming of for years, why should she go to you and tell you that she's pregnant, saddle you with a kid you made with her on a day you gave up, a day you threw away, a day you tried to erase? Basically, in Buffy's mind, I'm sure it would have been like asking you to be a father to a child you attempted to give up, throw away, erase, too. No woman could do that while she's pregnant; no mother could do that after she gave birth."

After several beats, Angel finally spoke. "I have to go, Cordelia. Buffy's at work, and I want to spend as much time with Ashlinn – that's her name – as I possibly can before... I'll just talk to you later."

He didn't wait for her to respond before he hung up. Turning his phone off before slipping it into his pocket, Angel found himself frozen in his spot. Looking out at the town of Sunnydale dimly illuminated against the black background of the night sky, he admitted that his friend had given him plenty to think about, but, still, he didn't move. Though he had been telling the truth when he said that he wanted to go back to his daughter's hospital room, that he wanted to soak in her essence as much as he possibly could while it still lingered on this plane, he couldn't stand up. He couldn't stand up, turn around, and walk back into the hospital. At least, not yet. In that moment, he simply felt too much to move. His emotions held him down, a crushing weight upon his already heavily burdened conscience.

Oh, he still blamed Buffy, but, at the same time, he blamed himself, too. However, unlike how he usually reacted to his self-inflicted recrimination, this he didn't know how to move past, how to temporarily forget, and he certainly had no idea how to forgive it either.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: Open Eyes**

"So, you're either fascinated by asphalt or playing a solo round of the game Freeze. I can't quite determine which."

For a man whose livelihood, whose very life depended upon his ability to constantly be aware of his surroundings, Willow had surprised him. Angel had not heard her approach, and he certainly had not realized that she had taken a seat beside him on the hospital sidewalk. It was disconcerting. He also had no idea what she was talking about.

"What?"

Evidently, judging by the light laughter she emitted before smiling and answering his single word question, Willow found his confusion amusing. "I don't know how long I stood just inside the hospital's entrance, watching you from the windows – at least ten minutes, and I don't think that you ever moved once. You were like a statue. Finally, I decided to come out here and see if you were okay, so I thought breaking the ice with a joke would be better than just telling you to snap out of it and come back inside."

"The sun won't be up for a few more hours. I'll be fine."

"That's not what has me concerned."

Though her words were softly spoken, they carried a weight of gravity that, oddly enough, touched Angel. In that moment, despite his fears, he knew that Willow wasn't only concerned with her best friend. The realization shouldn't have taken him so long to come to. After all, of all of Buffy's friends, Willow had always been the most accepting of him, the kindest, and she had been the one to call him to Sunnydale in regards to his daughter. Still, though, on the other hand, he knew that he couldn't open up to her, couldn't confide in her, simply for the fact that he wouldn't put her in the position where she would feel her loyalty being split in two and pulled in opposite directions.

However, despite his silence, Willow pressed on. "I know that you're in an impossible situation right now, Angel. You're hurt, you're confused, you're no doubt unbelievably angry and deservedly so. I mean, we're all still adjusting to the fact that you and Buffy have a kid together, and we're just watching from the sidelines; you're in the game. You're the pitcher, or the quarterback, or... Okay, help me out here. I'm a Jewish witch who has never watched or played sports in her life."

He chuckled slightly, astonished that he was even capable of a moment of levity. "I understand what you're trying to say, Willow."

"Thanks," she sighed, relaxing somewhat. "And, on top of all that, knowing you, you're probably blaming and hating yourself for a whole list of sins that no one else would hold you responsible for. Now, I'm not going to tell you that you're wrong or that you should cut it out. I'll save that responsibility for someone who knows you better."

"Right now, in this moment, I'm thinking you know me pretty well."

"Yeah, well, make it someone who's braver, too." Standing up, she held out a hand to him, obviously intending to help him stand up. The gesture wasn't meant to signify her lack of faith in his abilities; it was meant to offer companionship and support. "Anyway, in all of this, my real point for coming out here was to tell you that Ash is awake, and I think you should come up to her room and meet her."

He stood, but, as soon as he was upright on both feet, Angel let go of Willow's hand. "But Buffy..."

"Buffy's at work," she interrupted him, "but your daughter is awake now. I'm not trying to be cruel when I say this, but we just don't know how many more times we'll be able to say those words. Neither do the doctors. She could live for another year, or she could die tomorrow. While you still can, spend as much time with your little girl as possible. You deserve that much, Angel; more importantly, _she_deserves that much."

As they started walking back towards the hospital, he asked, "will she be angry?"

Without looking, he knew Willow shrugged beside him. "Maybe, but she'll also get over it." Exhaling, she expanded, "look, I don't know what happened between you two, and I certainly don't know how Ash came to be, but what I do know is that, despite the distance, and the years, and the lies that separate you and Buffy, she still loves you, and I know that you love her, too. More importantly, you both love your daughter. Ignoring everything else, for that reason alone, Buffy will get over any resentment she might feel towards you spending time with Ashlinn before she had the chance to introduce you to her. Above everything else, she's a good mom, Angel. She'll put your little girl before anything else, even herself."

"I know that," he reassured her. "I never doubted Buffy's ability as a mother. In fact, I've always known that she'd be an amazing mom. That's..." Swallowing thickly, he had to allow his comment to drop.

However, Willow was too astute and finished the thought for him. "That's part of the reason why you left, right?"

No response was necessary. Silently, the entered the hospital, walked side by side down the hall to the elevator, and boarded the steel trap. It wasn't until the doors opened to the ICU floor that Willow spoke again. Stopping his progression to his daughter's room by holding out a small hand and physically blocking his path despite the fact that he simply could have pushed past her without even making an effort, she asked, "just do me a favor, will you? Spend all the time you want with Ash, but don't tell her that you're her dad, at least not until Buffy comes back, okay? While she might forgive you anything right now because you're her kid's father, I'm just an honorary aunt. She'll fillet me with her tongue and burn me with her eyes if I allow you to even think the word daddy in Ash's presence."

"Sure, Willow," he agreed readily. For the moment, he was simply content with being in his daughter's presence... even if she didn't know of their connection. Before he could enter Ash's hospital room, though, he realized there was something off with his surroundings. Turning back to her, he asked, "where did everyone else go?"

"I sent Xander home. He needs to get a few hours of sleep before going to work tomorrow. Plus, I figured that, if I didn't get him to leave, he'd say something stupid to you, make you mad, and then I'd have to box his ears, and, frankly, I'd rather avoid touching Xander's ears. He's never quite gotten the concept of q-tips. As for Giles, he flittered off in a cloud of distraction, mumbling something about consulting the Watchers' Diaries. I'm sure he's drowning in tea and stuffy Britishness right about now."

Without knowing what to say, he simply nodded in acknowledgment of her explanation and turned, twisting the door open in one fluid movement. Willow followed. He could feel her presence directly behind him. Although he had been anticipating some alone time with his daughter, he was glad Willow was there, for he had some questions. The last thing he had expected when he entered the hospital room was to hear classical music, but it was indeed quietly playing from a small stereo on the bedside table. It was a familiar piece, something by either Mozart or Beethoven or perhaps even Brahms, but, in his emotionally overwhelmed state, the last thing he could think about was identifying a centuries old symphony.

"We should have known," Willow said as he moved towards Ashlinn's beside, once more taking the seat he had been occupying earlier while the little girl had been asleep. Though a part of him wondered if Ash had fallen back into the world of dreams, he watched as his little girl's face rotated smoothly to follow her aunt's voice, her eyes never once opening. "Between her timing, her looks, her name, how mysterious and secretive Buffy acted, and then there's this – her love for classical music, we should have known."

Though she didn't finish the thought entirely, Angel knew exactly what it was Willow was trying to say. She was telling him that they all should have realized earlier that he was Ash's father. Before he could respond, though, she kept talking. "I think Buffy almost went into apoplectic shock when we discovered Ash's liking Mozart instead of Madonna. She, teasingly of course, just didn't understand how her daughter could enjoy lyric-less noise." He could have told Willow that her best friend didn't always disdain classical music that, under the right circumstances with him, she had spent hours quietly listening to the very same music their daughter preferred, but he didn't. Such knowledge was private, meant to be kept between the two of them, something that he savored on lonely, still nights.

"Giles was overjoyed; Xander was bemused, so of course he made jokes about how, even at three years old, Ash was more sophisticated and more intelligent than he was." Angel was pretty sure that, for perhaps the first time in his life, Xander had finally gotten something right. "However, it just made sense to me. Ash hates loud noises, especially jarring ones, so TV and the radio have always been out for her, but, as long as it's a gentle enough piece, classical music is usually soothing and steady. It doesn't startle her."

"Aunt Willow," he heard his daughter speak for the first time. Her voice was soft but firm, and, though she wasn't whispering, he found himself leaning forward, not to better hear the murmured words, for his supernatural hearing was still quite proficient, but to savor them. At the same time, he watched Willow circle the bed in order to stand opposite of him. "Who are you talking to? Where's mommy?"

"Mommy's at work, and I'm talking to Angel. He's here to see you, to spend some time with you... if that's okay with you."

He nearly gasped and had to reign in his emotions to make sure that he didn't squeeze his little girl's hand too tight when he watched her smile. She had Buffy's smile. Her inner light, just like her mother's, nearly scalded the darkness almost always perched territorially inside of him.

"An angel, really," Ash questioned ecstatically.

He himself smiled while Willow giggled. Certainly, he'd never been confused for an angelic being before, not even by Buffy. "No, sweetie. His name's Angel," the little girl's surrogate aunt informed her.

"Oh, well that's okay, too," his daughter simply adjusted.

"He's my friend, and he's your mom's... well, let's just say that we've all known Angel for a really long time," Willow stated, evidently unsure of how to introduce him further.

However, he wasn't concerned with such matters, for, while Willow was talking, Ashlinn was pivoting her little head away from her aunt, opening her eyes, and staring blindly in his direction. At first, Angel thought that perhaps someone had silently entered the room behind him, but a quick glance over his shoulder proved that idea to be false. Turning back around, he observed his little girl, noticed how she didn't blink, how her eyes seemed to have a glazed aspect to them, and, that, despite the fact that he was sitting right there, his daughter didn't seem to know where exactly he was.

"Oh my god."

"Crap," Willow exclaimed, making Ash laugh. Hurrying to explain herself, she said, "I knew there was something that I was forgetting, but it's just that we're so used to it now that it's not something we really think about. I'm really sorry, Angel. I should have warned you. I should have..."

"No, it's alright," he interrupted her. With a quick, apologetic smile, Willow stood up, and, after squeezing Ash's hand, unobtrusively slipped out of the hospital room. In the silence that followed, he was luckily allowed a few minutes to reflect and think, his little girl content with simply listening to her music and holding his hand... not that she knew just who exactly she was trusting so faithfully, so readily.

His daughter was blind.

_The alleys of New York City were never visually pleasing, especially at night, but, at least during the summer he'd find solitary clumps of grass that grew up from the cracks in the sidewalks, at least during the fall he'd see forgotten, lost leaves blowing amongst the garbage strewn stretches of concrete, their yellows, reds, and oranges in bright contrast to the grays and browns he was used to, and at least in the spring the constant rain washed away some of the ever-present dirt and grime. However, during the long, bitter winter months, there was nothing to alleviate the decrepit nature of his surroundings._

_Walking listlessly, his feet working dully to drag his skin covered skeleton down yet another city block, Angel couldn't escape the ugliness of his existence. If he kept his eyes open, he saw the disease and filth that infected the bustling city, eroding its foundation where the blinding lights couldn't manage to reach. If he closed his eyes, he saw the years upon years of destruction and ruin that he rained down upon mankind as his soulless counterpart. Everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked, the repulsiveness followed._

_At the last moment, he managed to pull himself away from his thoughts long enough to stop his dirt encrusted, shoeless feet from tripping over the legs of an old, sightless beggar. However, once stopped, he couldn't move again. Instead, he was frozen in place, simply staring down at the emaciated man beneath him. Despite the fact that the blind man was just as unclean, just as thin, just as wretched looking as he himself was, Angel also realized that his living, breathing counterpart was smiling, something he was pretty sure he had forgotten how to do._

_Finally backing away, he stumbled across the alley until he was leaning against the opposite wall and then slid down to sit in a pile of forgotten, rotten refuse. He was starving, so he should have been searching for a rat or two to eat. He was unprotected from the sun which would rise in a mere handful of hours, so he should have been looking for a place to hide during the day. And he was putting the blind beggar in greater danger by sitting so close to him, so he should have left the man alone. But he couldn't, and, when the other man fell asleep, he quietly whispered to himself the reason why he had stayed there for so long._

_"I wish I were blind, too."_

Shaking the recollection away, Angel heaped yet another sin before his own feet. Years ago, before he had met Whistler and then been introduced to Buffy, he had craved the very thing that his daughter now suffered from. Though illogical, he felt as though his evils as a man were being paid for by his innocent daughter. However, he also knew that hating himself wouldn't help Ashlinn, so, for the time being– at least until he was alone or maybe not until she died her painful, horrible, inevitable death, one that she did not deserve, he would push aside his self-directed anger and try to live in the moment. Not only did he need to enjoy every single second that he could possibly have with his little girl, but she deserved all the joy he could grant her for however long she lived.

Reaching into the beside table drawer, Angel pulled out a small tablet and a pencil. "So, Ash," he asked his only child, banishing his dark thoughts and infusing his voice with as much warmth and happiness that he possibly could. "Do you like to draw?"


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: The Bad in Each Other**

He waited for her. Despite the fact that it was well passed dawn and the sun, shielded from his UV-ray temperamental skin by heavy window blinds, was blazing overhead in the eastern sky, Angel refused to sleep. Then again, though, he wasn't sure if he'd allow himself to close his eyes again for weeks, months, however long it would be that his daughter was still alive. On a more practical level, he also wanted to talk to Buffy.

There were so many things that he wanted to ask her, not the least of which was why – _why_she had kept the fact that she had given birth their child a secret from him, why she never asked for his help after she found out Ash was sick, why, even after all her deceptions, she still seemed angry with him. However, those questions could wait... at least for a few hours. Knowing that particular discussion had the potential of turning ugly, Angel refused to have it anywhere near his daughter, and he knew that Buffy would want to spend some time with Ashlinn after being away from her during her work shift. For the moment, he would be satisfied to ask her questions about the early months of her pregnancy, about how and when she discovered that she really was pregnant and that he was her child's father.

He didn't have to turn away from his little girl's bedside to know when Buffy entered the small hospital room. Even without his extra refined, supernatural senses, he would have felt her return. Despite the years that stretched between their former relationship and whatever it was that they now shared between them other than their child, he was aware of the fact that he'd always recognize Buffy whenever she was near. His body, that part of him that was still male and not monster... no matter how small he sometimes believed that part to be, sat up and sang whenever she approached, and he knew that, for as long as Buffy was alive, it always would. His hurt and rage towards her did nothing to diminish the sensation.

She joined him silently, taking the opposite, empty chair as though she had just stepped out for a short moment and had not been gone for hours. He could feel her gaze upon him – curious, wondering, anxious as though she knew of all the things he wanted to ask her and yet still feared the questions. Angel wondered, despite all the time she had to think about her responses, if, perhaps, she still didn't have the answers. However, at the same time, he didn't have to wonder about his own mental state. Whether she had the answers or not, he was going to demand that Buffy tell him what he wanted to know.

As he had promised himself, though, and their daughter... if only silently, he started his interrogation easily. "How far along were you when you discovered that you were pregnant?" His voice was soft, but his words brokered no sign of weakness or passivity.

Shocking him, Buffy actually laughed, but the sound held no hint of humor. "You obviously have never had an experience like this before, if nothing else." He had to school his face in order to hide any emotion or thought such an observation on her part inspired within him. "Because, Angel, that's not an easy answer to give."

"Try."

She shrugged. "Well, there's knowing that you're pregnant and then there's _knowing_. I knew pretty early on, all things considered, but I didn't _know _until about a month after that. I was around two months into my pregnancy." Buffy was silent for a moment before adding, "I'm still kind of surprised I put two and two together so quickly."

"Why? Didn't you have any of the... symptoms, signs?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, I had all of them, I think – nausea, dizziness, tender breasts, crazy, hormonal emotions. The list goes on. And, of course, I skipped my period, too, but, between slaying and stress from school, my body wasn't always a model of the perfect 28 day cycle. Plus, I didn't have any clear recollections, just dreams, and I didn't really think that a baby was a possibility for me, let alone you. Don't get me started on _that _curveball in the game of biology. Anyway, it was just quite a leap of faith to take after only two months. That's all I'm saying."

Although her words weren't intentionally misleading, it seemed to Angel as though Buffy were talking in circles. If he wanted to understand what she was saying, he had to read between the lines, fill missing gaps of information in for himself, and piece together the meanings of her less than crystal clear explanation, and, frankly, he just wasn't in the right frame of mind nor relaxed enough to bob and weave his way through the unique inner workings of her mind. So, frustrated, he finally snapped, "can you just start from the beginning and explain everything to me straight? No cutesy jokes or puns, alright?" Leveling out his tone and lowering the volume of his voice, Angel added, "please," fairly grimacing as the single polite word left his lips.

Almost defensively, she narrowed her eyes and spoke harshly, bitingly. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. It wasn't some step-by-step, precise process of realization, okay? It was weird, and confusing, and, if it wasn't for your brothers in fang, I probably would have been walking around nine months pregnant, bloated and swollen like I swallowed a watermelon." Quirking an ironic brow, she added, "at least, it's better than carrying one, though, right?"

Not seeing what fruit had to do with anything, Angel waved off her comments and quickly dismissed what she said by remarking, "you're extraordinarily strong, Buffy. You could probably carry a watermelon with just your pinky finger." Leaning forward in his chair, he switched the topic back to his original line of inquiry. "What do vampires have to do with you figuring out that you were pregnant with my child?"

"Well, first of all, at that point, you had not yet entered the equation, at least not in my mind. It was around Christmas, and I wasn't feeling well, but I was also dealing with a mixed drink of emotions, none of them pleasant and fruity, by the way, and mom, Xander, and Willow were all sick." He noticed that she only winced slightly when mentioning her mother. "Needless to say, I just thought I was sick, too. Considering the fact that, according to my memories, it had been a while since I went horizontal with anyone, alive or dead for that matter, Buffy plus baby hadn't even been an option."

Not knowing why he felt the need to harass her but doing so anyway, Angel snidely said, "you don't have to be horizontal, Buffy."

"As I figured out for myself as my dreams continued to get more and more graphic." Her immediate, testy rejoinder made him sit back in his chair and drop his gaze, losing any and all urge to needle the obviously still raw wound that was their daughter's conception. "Anyway, with my house being germ central, I want out slaying. That was the first time the vamps said anything that made me really sit down and think – literally, but it certainly wasn't the last. They kept quoting cheesy lyrics about two hearts. At first, I just thought they had horrible taste in music, but then my bi-polar flu symptoms wouldn't go away, and I realized that my dreams about you and me, kitchen tables and clocks were more than just that; they were memories, and I started to put the pieces together, but I didn't go to the doctor's for the actual test until mid-January. Hey, if nothing else, though," an acerbic, tender note of both pain and guilt entered Buffy's voice then. "You at least managed to keep up the tradition of the most unexpected birthday surprises that year. Thanks for that, by the way. There's nothing that shows a girl that you care more than turning into a homicidal maniac or making her think that she turned into the Less Than Virginal Immaculate Conception Barbie, coming soon to a store near you."

"Buffy, please," he beseeched her, both to get her back on the track of their conversation and to, once more, ask for her forgiveness concerning her seventeenth birthday.

"Yeah, okay. You're right. That's not going to help anything." He wasn't actually trying to censure her, but he also didn't attempt to disabuse her of the idea that he was either. "Anyway, so, yeah, that's how I found out." She fell quiet then, and he risked looking up to see if she was looking at him, but she wasn't. Instead, Buffy was staring off into space, lost in memories he'd never understand, not even if she told him about them a thousand and one times.

"You know, I'll never forget what it felt like that day, sitting in the doctor's waiting room. I mean, I pretty much already knew what my test results were going to say, but, at the same time, it was like I didn't, too." Running a distracted hand through her hair, she sighed before saying, "I'm sorry. I'm not really explaining this very well."

"No, it's alright. Just... just talk, Buffy. I'll understand."

And, in an odd way, he did.

"I don't think I've ever been that scared before or since. It was more unnerving to wait for confirmation of the bun I had baking than it was to face any big bad. I was, to put it bluntly, freaking out, but I had to do it quietly, because no one knew. It was a surprise party for one, and I was the guest of honor... only I wasn't sure if I wanted the party favor or not. I was anxious and nauseas and not just because of the morning sickness. I was so wired and jumpy I wouldn't have been surprised to see sparks igniting off my skin. I was cold and clammy, yet my face felt as though it was burning with a fever – so hot that, at any second, my brain would start to boil. I was..."

Despite the fact that Buffy was still talking, Angel didn't need to listen, because he knew exactly what she was saying. Despite the fact that their roles had been reversed and that his 'one line or two' moment had been centuries before she was even thought of, the whispers and shadows of that kind of fear never completely went away. He had never been shy or secretive when it came to his human past and the mistakes he had made before he was turned into a vampire, but, at the same time, he also didn't like to advertise them too bluntly to Buffy in fear that someday he would tell her something that she wouldn't be able to overlook or forgive. So, as she continued to explain to him what it felt like to wait for the results of her pregnancy test, he recalled a fatherhood scare of his own.

_His father was going to kill him... if he didn't take care of the matter for the older man first. He had been warned about dallying with the maids. His mother said that serving girls were wanton and would lead him into temptation and evil; his father said that they would trap him into marriage. How or why either outcome would come about, his parents wouldn't say, but now Liam knew._

_Instead of offering to take his son to visit a house of ill repute like other fathers in order to initiate him into the pleasures of being a man, Liam's dad had simply forbidden him from even thinking about sexual gratification, promising to eventually arrange a suitable marriage once he believed his son to be mature and ready enough to be a husband. However, he was sixteen, and he was curious, and his body had felt like it was going to explode if he didn't do something immediately, so he had cornered his family's young serving girl one day and had taken matters into his own hands... so to speak._

_That first time, he had simply kissed her, but it didn't take long before a quick, fully clothed embrace wasn't enough, and, before he really knew what he was doing, Liam had bedded the naïve girl, taking her virginity as he shed off his own. She wasn't the prettiest creature he had seen, but, in a pinch, she had sufficed, but, now, he was paying the consequences and dearly so, if he said so himself._

_Just as he was about to desperately seek out her assistance once more, she had come to him. At first, he had believed her to be as needy of his embrace as he was of hers, but that idealistic notion of his own attractiveness was immediately doused when the girl informed him that she had missed her courses and thought herself to be pregnant. It had been a week since that tear filled conversation, on her part, and Angel was about to go out of his mind with worry, fear, and not a small helping of ire._

_He was angry with himself for giving into his baser instincts. He was angry with the girl for allowing him to bed her without taking into consideration the possible consequences. It never entered his mind that he should have thought of them as well. And he was angry with his father, too, laying the entire mess at his father's feet, for, if he would have been willing to take Liam to a whore house like every other father, then he wouldn't have had to seek pleasure from their family maid._

_Ruthlessly, he paced his cluttered, messy room. Not one to pick up after himself and refusing to allow anyone else to enter his sleeping quarters that morning, the space was littered with scraps of sketching paper, clothes both worn and those hastily discarded in favor of others, and half finished dishes of food. He should have been working on his studies or assisting his father, but, as he waited for word from his family's servant, dreading the news that he was to be a father himself, Liam couldn't do anything besides walk the width of his room and blame everyone but himself for the quagmire he found himself in._

_Without word or even a warning knock, the door behind him opened swiftly, crashing inward so heavily that it slammed into the wall. "I am not with child," the maid informed him. He was shocked to see that she was just as relieved if not more so by the news than he was. Where was her disappointment at not being able to trap a man of a higher social carriage than her own into marriage? Where was her womanly, maternal woe at not being pregnant with his first born?_

_However, Liam's confusion quickly disappeared as his own enthusiasm swept through him. Giddily, he reached for the homely girl, picked her up, and twirled her about the room. Placing her back on her feet, he kissed her soundly, walking backwards and pulling her after him towards the bed as he did so._

_"But m'lord," she protested briefly, her voice squeaking slightly as she spoke. "Should we really do this again, especially after what happened last time?"_

_"Don't worry," he told her, hastily undressing her while, at the same time, addressing her fears. While he might have been worried about becoming a father, that had not prevented him from doing some asking as to how to prevent such a mistake from happening a second time. "There are ways, things we can do. Just trust me."_

_And she did, giggling so as he fell onto the bed and rolled them over so that she was underneath him. While he didn't have a sponge soaked in vinegar to use, he'd simply restrain himself enough to pull out at the all important moment. Several men at the pubs had recommended such a method, and who was he to argue with them? They were older, wiser, and still child-free. If it worked for those ganders, it'd work for he and his goose... geese, too._

_Laughing joyfully, Liam dropped his face into the heaving bosom of the girl beneath him and bit a milky, shuddering mound in abandon._

It had been so many years since he had recalled that particularly flawed moment of his human existence, but Angel was no less appalled by his own behavior than he had been the last time he had remembered that day from so long ago. Sadly, he realized that he couldn't even bring to mind the young serving girl's name. Had it been Bridget, or Bridie, or it might have even been Bree? Putting aside his thoughts, at least for the moment, he turned once more to face Buffy, only noticing then that she was no longer talking.

Before he could apologize, though, for drifting out of their conversation, he saw that she hadn't stopped because of his rude daydreaming but because she herself had fallen asleep. Exhausted from too many hours of being awake and emotionally drained from both Ash's hospitalization and his unexpected appearance, she was curled up in a tiny, vulnerable ball, somehow making the stiff, cheap hospital chair look like the most luxurious bed in the world. Though he wanted to continue talking to her, wanted to ask more questions, Angel relented, recognizing the fact that she needed her rest more than he needed his peace of mind.

Standing up, he turned introspective once more. He had been so willing to throw away his chances of being a father while he had been human, so ungrateful of even such an opportunity, that now he wondered if he even deserved such a gift. True, he had missed years of his daughter's life, but was it any more than his just rewards for how he had treated women during most of his life, both when he was still alive and afterwards when he was dead?

Furthermore, what would he have done if the girl had been pregnant? Would he have done the right thing, stood by her, claimed his child, and married the maid, or would he have lied and said that the child wasn't his or forced her to do something drastic and seek an eighteenth century abortion which oftentimes resulted in not only the loss of the unborn child's life but also that of the mother's? Sadly, he didn't know the answer to his own questions... even with more than two hundred years of experience to aid him in his thoughts.

Pushing open the room's door, he moved hesitantly into the hospital corridor, careful to not accidentally step into a shaft of sunlight, but the hall was dark and gloomy – appropriately so considering he was in the intensive care wing, illuminated with only the unnatural but non-harmful light of the overhead fluorescents. Scanning the empty space until he found a nurse, Angel then moved with assurance towards the health care professional, stopping briefly to speak with her.

"If it wouldn't be too much of a bother, would you mind letting the other staff members know that I don't want my... Miss Summers and her daughter disturbed for a few hours if possible. They're both asleep, and I..."

Interrupting him, the nurse said, "that won't be a problem, sir. It'll be a while yet before we do rounds anyway, and I think both Buffy and Ashlinn need their rest."

He nodded in agreement and thanks before turning back and soundlessly returning to his daughter's room. Once more taking his seat beside the bed, Angel caught himself not only watching his little girl as she slept but also looking in Buffy's direction as well, watching her sleep, too. His actions weren't out of habit, and he wasn't concerned for her simply because she was the mother of his child; she was just Buffy, and he was Angel, and no matter what happened between them, some things simply wouldn't change... even if he wasn't able to admit that to her or himself yet.

Soon though, he thought; he hoped.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: A Real Hero**

"Listen, you big poofter. If you're going to name the joint after yourself, you should at least be there to pull your weight... which is something I can attest to being no small matter. Bloody hell. If you're not careful, the rest of your body is someday going to catch up to the size of your forehead."

Somewhere in the middle of Spike's stage-worthy declaration – he was projecting his voice and waving his arms around as though he really were Billy Freaking Elliot, Angel was startled awake. It had taken hours of just sitting and watching his daughter... and Buffy... sleep for him to finally succumb to his own weariness, but, once he had, the rest had been deep and dark, completely shielding him from the otherwise intrusive noises of a hospital's day-to-day operations. If he wouldn't have been so annoyed with the other vampire's presence, he would have been irked with himself for lowering his guard enough so that he could be caught unaware. It had been so long since anyone or anything had been able to sneak up on him, and, though he couldn't have picked a worse time to allow his diligence to slip, he also wasn't surprised that the presence of Buffy and Ash were able to lull him into such a relaxed state... even with all their issues considered.

However, before he could order Spike from the room, yell at him, or even defend himself, Buffy was up and out of her chair, advancing upon the intruder. "What the hell are you doing here, and how did you get passed... well, everyone?"

"If everyone includes your witchy and wimpy sidekicks and one washed up watcher, then they've either recently become invisible or have deserted you in your time of need, Blondie. And this is Sunnydale. Contrary to what you and I both know about the crime rate in this town, security here sucks. I didn't encounter a single rent-a-piggy on my way up here to your lovely if not slightly too sterile for my tastes accommodations."

"Willow, Xander, and Giles are all at work, Spike," Angel addressed the other man's first remarks. "Speaking of which, why aren't you?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, mate."

Ignoring them, Buffy demanded, "and the doctors and nurses? Why did they let you through?"

"Why do you think," Spike asked rhetorically. "I'm a bloody creature of the night. Do you really think they could have stopped me?"

Outraged, she lunged towards him, causing Spike to take several cautious steps backwards towards the closed door. "You ate the staff?"

"Of course not. I have a soul now, you know."

"Yeah, and I'm going to be the new center for the Lakers." Hands on hips, eyes ablaze with indignation, and mouth set in a grim, harsh frown, Buffy pressed, "how did you really get up here, Spike?"

"Well, I slipped one nurse a twenty, offered another my flask, hid from anyone with a pager, and in general stuck to the shadows. You're not new to the game, sweetheart. You should know how we," with this he waved a hand back and forth between himself and Angel, "operate."

Before she could respond, though, and before Angel could, once more, try to get the other vampire to leave, their daughter stirred in the bed beside them, her small voice filling the room more than even their loudest remarks would have been able to. "Who are you?"

Spike visibly bristled, obviously insulted that even a child didn't immediately recognize him, but quickly regathered himself, straightening his shoulders and sticking his chin out in the pugnacious way that embodied all of his actions and movements. "I'm William the... bestest frienemy these two here star-crossed lovers ever had and wished they never laid eyes on. Why? Who are you?"

Rolling her eyes, Buffy said, "Spike, she's four. You do realize, right, that she has no idea what you're saying." Before he could respond, she turned to their only child. "And what William is, honey, is leaving."

"Wait a goddamned minute here." Addressing Buffy, Spike demanded, "just what the bloody hell is going on? First, the ponce here disappears without word, leaving me with both my own caseload and his. I tried to get that harpy of a seeing-secretary of his to tell me where he went and what he was up to, but all I got for my efforts was a raging case of blue balls and a hard-on the likes of which you two have never seen. The only reason I found you was because I knew the only thing that would make the poof take a break from the hapless and hopeless would be his precious slayer. So, I took the DeSoto for a spin, had a little chat with the local demon busybodies, and ended up in, of all places, Sunnydale General's intensive care unit. What possible reason could the two of you have to be sitting beside some kid? What, did you decide to take time out of your busy schedules for a little charity work, trying to make the niblet's nightmares come true, because, the last time I checked, it was called 'Make a Wish' not 'Make a Curse."

Fed up with both Spike's antics and his lack of answers, Angel snapped. "That's enough. First of all, you work for me."

"No, bloke, I work for the powers."

"No, Spike, _I_work for the powers," he contradicted the other vampire. "You're just my bleached blonde sidekick."

"Let's back this train up here, okay," Buffy requested. "You two... work together?"

"Unfortunately yes," Spike grimaced, sounding petulant.

"Look, it's like this," Angel decided to take the reins in their less than comprehensible conversation. "We already discussed The Initiative – briefly, but, after Spike was chipped, he ended up seeking me out in L.A.."

_He was elbow deep in records. Taking advantage of the slow business day – no one had yet to seek out their help and Cordelia was happily ensconced in a seaweed wrap and out of his hair, Angel was attempting to make sense of his seer's files and bookkeeping... if such terms could actually be applied to the papers he was reviewing. Needless to say, he would have done just about anything for some sort of demon infestation or apocalyptic meltdown. However, not even the idea of balancing a Cordelia kept checkbook was daunting enough to make him want to speak with the creature darkening his doorstep._

_"Spike, I'd say come in, but I think we both know that I'd really mean get out of my city and don't come back."_

_"It's always a pleasure, Peaches." Sauntering in as if_

_heowned Angel's hotel, Spike took a seat opposite of Angel's desk. "Whatcha doin', Poof?"_

_"Trying to get some work done. If you'd like to know what that word means, though – work, there's a Barnes and Noble three blocks away. Go buy a dictionary."_

_Ignoring the dig, the other vampire returned, "I have a word for you: competition." Although he wasn't interested in anything Spike had to say, Angel looked up anyway, knowing that, if he wanted to get rid of the pest, he'd have to humor him... at least temporarily. Once he had his attention, Spike continued. "There's a rumor out there that you're going to eventually turn into a real boy again someday."_

_"Listening to gossip again, William?"_

_The dig didn't even faze him. Shrugging, Spike admitted, "I have to stay in the loop somehow. Now that I have my soul again and all..." Confidently, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. "The other kiddies at the playground just don't seem to want to play with me anymore, but I'm sure you know what that's like, being souled yourself."_

_"You don't have a soul, Spike; you have a chip. I, too, know what's going on, and there's a big difference between having a conscience and having your brain rewired."_

_"I know, considering the fact that I now have both."_

_Annoyed with the other vampire's circuitous comments, he tossed down his pen, stood up, and leaned forward against his desk. "What the hell are you saying, Spike?"_

_Spike also stood. "I'm saying, mate, that you're not the only special vampire in town anymore. After those soldier pansies made me into a vampire-computer hybrid, I booked it out of old Sunnyhell. Heard there was a prophecy about a vampire with a soul who would one day regain his humanity, though that, since I couldn't be evil, I might as well go for the whole enchilada, so I went and found myself a soul. Now, here I am, ready and able to be your competition. Better get ready to lose the race, Peaches, because I'm here to stay."_

_His head was spinning with the information he had just heard, but a century plus of bickering was difficult to surpass, and Angel found himself falling into the same behavior patterns that he always inevitably succumbed to when anywhere near his unbelievably frustrating grandchild. "Cordelia has visions sent to her from the powers for me."_

_"Yeah, well, I've been panting after your sloppy seconds for decades, mate. I'm sure I'll be able to do the same thing with the lust-worthy Queen C."_

_"I have this business, I have the connections, and I've been working towards Shanshu for almost a year now, Spike. You can't just jump in and think that you'll beat me."_

_"Oh, I don't think; I know," the other vampire taunted. "Besides, you might have a head start, but you also have a few more years and about a thousand more crimes to work off than I do. As for your business and connections, the way I see it is this: you want to do good. Now, I want to do good, too. If you deny me the opportunity to help those losers that you care about so much, then you wouldn't be living up to your own standards now, would you, Poof? Basically, you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't, so what room's going to be mine?"_

Drawing his recollection to a close, Angel finished, "so, Spike has been working with me for a few years now. It's not a perfect situation..."

"It's bloody awful," his blonde counterpart interrupted.

"But, at the end of the day, we help more people together than we would apart."

Taking his gaze away from Buffy, Angel risked a glance at Spike. Although he had told the truth concerning his working relationship with the other vampire, he had also kept out of his story to Buffy anything and everything having to do with Shanshu. It wasn't that he didn't want to be honest with her; he just didn't want her to know about the prophecy, both because of Ash and because, whether he wanted to admit it or not, Spike was right. He might not be the vampire with the soul that the prophecy was meant for. Besides, at the moment, they had other, more important things to worry about: their daughter.

"As for work, Spike, I'm afraid you're going to have to take over for a while. Temporarily. I'm needed here."

"Yeah, you see, that's the part I'm still confused about. Blondie got her questions answered," Spike said, crossing his arms in front of his chest in defiance. "Now, I want mine."

"Spike, this is Buffy's daughter, Ashlinn."

"Bloody hell." Despite his already pale countenance, Spike visibly paled further. "You mean, there have been two slayers in history with sucklings, and I've been involved with both of them?"

"Sucklings," Buffy questioned.

Waving her off impatiently, Spike hastily explained, "you know, babes sucking on your teat." Before Buffy could explode in justified anger, he pressed on. "That's not what's important here, though, Fluffy. Who'd you bugger to end up with a bun in the oven, and what's the poof doing here instead?"

"Spike, Ash is sick, very sick." Angel wasn't sure if Buffy had been completely honest with their daughter about her illness, but he also knew that they would not get rid of the blonde pest until his curiosity was abated. "She has something called Tay-Sachs disease."

"Yeah, I saw something about that on Oprah, I think. Terrible stuff." Offhandedly, Spike went to root for a cigarette only realizing that he couldn't smoke once he had the stick lifted and stuck in between his lips. "Oh hell," he mumbled to himself before putting it back. Refocusing his attention, he sympathized, addressing Ash, "hell of a way to go, niblet. You have my sympathies, especially if these two are the ones keeping you company in the end." Finally paying close attention to the child before him, he observed, "why, the tiny chit can't see me."

"It's a symptom, Spike," Buffy stated simply. Although her words were mild, Angel could tell that her patience had just about frayed completely. He needed to get rid of his coworker and fast.

"Look, your... concern is appreciated, I guess. Off putting," Angel admitted, shrugging, "but appreciated, but what I really need for you to do is go back to Los Angeles, help the others, and just give me time to... I'll keep you guys posted, okay?"

But Spike wasn't listening to him. His head was cocked to the side, and he had an odd, fascinated expression upon his otherwise impassive face. "I can see bits and pieces of you in your kid, Slayer, but that forehead..." Realization dawned, and Angel cringed in anticipation. "Fuck the queen!" Turning towards him, Spike accused, "you're the baby daddy, Peaches? Oh, this is rich!"

Although she had been relatively quiet during the entire debacle in her room, her attention if not focus shifting from one speaker to the next, no doubt confused by much of what had been said, Ash, somehow, knew perfectly well just what Spike had been attempting to say in his usual offbeat, insulting way. With her face, the most perfect blend of his features and Buffy's, lifted in the direction from which she last heard him speak, she quietly, shyly asked, "you're my daddy?"

And then all hell broke lose.

Buffy turned on and started yelling at Spike who, in turn, began laughing hysterically as all the pieces of their twisted puzzle fell into place for him. On his part, Angel didn't know what to do. While he wanted to confirm the answer to his daughter's question, he also didn't want to share such a special moment with the very bane of his existence present. Plus, judging Buffy's reaction to Spike's remarks, he wasn't now sure if she wanted Ash to know about him and his connection to her. Just when he was about to bodily remove the blonde vampire from the room, though, Spike found a way to dodge around the infuriated slayer attacking him verbally, skipped towards the door, and offered one last parting remark. "If anyone needs me or if you feel need to entertain again later on, I'll be at Willy's, passing out 'It's a Girl' cigars. At my age, who would have thought I'd become someone's nephew."

Silence descended upon the room as soon as Spike was gone, but, unfortunately, a calm did not follow.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two: O Holy Break of Day**

_He felt a piece of his soul die when he read the notice in the paper. It crashed, collapsed, and sputtered like a car running out of gas._

_It wasn't so much that he was entirely fond of the woman personally, but he recognized her importance, her significance, and knew what it would do to the person he cared the most for in the world if the news was true. The small article was rather innocuous itself, barely a paragraph located haphazardly in the Arts and Culture section of Sunnydale's one and only paper. Despite the fact that he now lived in LA and had for some time, Angel still subscribed to his former hometown's daily journal. While he wasn't sure if he would do anything to help or not, he at least wanted to know if something was wrong in Buffy's life, and he knew better than to expect her to contact him if something was amiss... not after how she had reacted that one Thanksgiving._

_So, as was his habit, he had sat down that afternoon to peruse the thin newspaper. Usually, he contended himself with just reading the front page, the local news section, and the obituaries. If he wanted to know what was going on in the world, Los Angeles had its own papers, better papers, but things had been slow in the office, so he browsed through the entire missive, scanning articles and headlines for anything that might pique his curiosity or attention. Though he never would have expected to stumble upon the piece of information currently shaking slightly in his hands, he wondered if he would have learned of it at all if he hadn't been so bored._

Due to an urgent, family illness, the Summers Gallery's new show entitled 'Art of the Caribbean' has been permanently postponed. Although the family declined to comment, an anonymous source has revealed that Joyce Summers, the gallery's owner and manager, is currently undergoing treatment for a brain tumor. As more information is revealed, check back for additional reporting.

_Because of the blunt honesty of the statement, Angel didn't doubt its sincerity. While the reporter was indeed a shade past indelicate, he knew the notice to be true without even needing to contact Buffy or her friends for confirmation. In a town where the three highest causes of death were animal attacks, barbequing accidents, and PCP gang related violence, something so normal, so non-supernatural was simply too novel to deny. Sometimes, as Joyce's case proved, the unusual just made too much sense. Buffy's mother, since learning of her daughter's calling, had feared what she couldn't understand only to be potentially felled by something medical science knew of yet still sometimes couldn't defeat. In the distant, still functioning portions of his mind, Angel realized that the situation had the distinct touch of irony to it._

_However, ironic or not, he didn't, couldn't accept such a conclusion to Buffy's mother's life. While there was nothing that the slayer could do to fight for her mom other than making sure she went to the doctor and held her hand in comfort, he wasn't helpless. There was that one last option available to him that Buffy couldn't bridge, and he intended to use it or, at least, attempt to. Without second thought, he stood from his desk, haphazardly tossed the Sunnydale paper aside, and strode out of his hotel, absentmindedly grabbing a pair of earrings Cordelia had left sitting on the front counter._

_His seer would have a fit when she realized his treachery... if she ever did. Chances were she'd accuse Spike of stealing her jewelry in order to pawn the baubles for enough spare change to keep him in cigarettes, booze, and trashy magazines for a week. And, anyway, even if she did discover that he had been the one to swipe the earrings, if everything went according to plan, he'd be dead anyway. She wouldn't be able to kill him twice._

_Or would that be a third time, considering his already un-dead status?_

_Shoving any and all existential thoughts away at least temporarily (he'd have either a lifetime in hell to contemplate them soon enough or not a care in the world if he actually managed to land in heaven), Angel focused instead upon his driving, enjoying the steady, rumbling purr of his car's engine beneath his feet. If it could have been helped, he would have liked his last ride to be at night so he could have had the top down and the wind rushing against his face, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and he was about to go to the two most stubborn, contrary entities he had ever met for help._

_As he made his way to and then underneath the post office, Angel attempted and failed to take stock of his existence. After more than two hundred years, one would think that he'd have accomplished just about everything he had wanted to, but he wasn't even close to feeling done with life, mainly because, for most of his years on earth, he hadn't actually been living. He had been either a blood thirsty, maniacal demon or a sniveling, cowardly ghost of a man. However, even if his days as Angeles had been fulfilling and his years wandering as Angel had been more than just bare subsisting, all that time he had been without Buffy, and it wasn't so much that he regretted the things he hadn't been able to do but more that he regretted not being able to do them with her._

_Nonetheless, though, he was intent and determined upon his errand. The idea of Shanshu was so distant, he didn't hope to see it within Buffy's immediate future. Even if he did manage to regain his humanity before she became too old to forget or want him any longer, he knew that, without her mother to anchor her, Buffy could very well die before he attempted to take his first necessary breath. Yes, she had her friends and Giles, but, whether they realized it or not, Willow, Xander, and the watcher drew her further into the world of the supernatural – be it Willow's witchcraft, Xander's inability to date anything that wasn't a demon of some kind, and Giles simply by his profession; whereas Joyce, on the other hand, was one of Buffy's last links to the real, human world, a world she wanted to be a part of more than anything else she could ever wish for. If there was something he could do to help her retain that small part of herself – and there was, then he would do whatever it took, sacrifice anything he had to offer._

_"What is it this time you desire of us, lower being?" Without even waiting for him to respond, the female oracle held out her hand, drawing Cordelia's earrings directly into her palm. Immediately distracted, her attention shifted away from Angel to focus solely upon the glittering jewelry._

_"I come seeking to save a life."_

_"Well, isn't that already your cause, your mission here," the male oracle responded. "If we were to help you, then you would be failing yourself."_

_"The slayer's mother..."_

_"Always the slayer," the female oracle interrupted, her voice slightly distant and dreamy as though her response had been automatic, ingrained, but offered without much thought._

_Undaunted, he pressed on. "She's suffering, possibly dying of a brain tumor. That's not something I can fight. I can't save her, but you can."_

_"No," the male argued. "We can't. Her path is set. It can't be altered. Even if we were so inclined... which we aren't, she is just a mortal, lower being, nothing that concerns us."_

_"Lower beings or not, you've expressed concern before for the slayer and myself. If you are to deny me, then you'll probably be sentencing to death your best champion."_

_"Which is it then," the gaudily hued woman before him insisted, finally allowing her piercing, unblinking gaze to rest upon him once more. "Either the slayer will perish or not; either we will kill her or save her. There is nothing but yes and no, yin and yang, life and death. You speak of things that you are unsure of, possibilities. Here, for us, there is no such thing. What is will be, and what isn't will not."_

_"Fine then," Angel answered back. Although he had no proof, he also had no doubt of his words. "She'll die."_

_"Yes, and so will all things... eventually," the female oracle continued._

_Cutting to the chase, he offered, "my life for her mother's – an even exchange."_

_Shouting, the male ordered, "that is enough, lower being. Know your place. It is not your decision to determine what is fair or not, who shall die or not, or what purpose you are to serve for us. Cease your tongue. Do not offer us these paltry exchanges as though you have the right to speak to us in such a way. And heed me this. If you decide to come to us again in the future, do so wisely. I have tired of your interferences and shall not look so kindly upon another."_

_Before he could respond, there was a flash of light, and Angel was catapulted back into the outer recesses of the post office's basement, landing with a crash against the oracle's alter._

While so much was the same as that afternoon years before, so much was different as well. It was night rather than day, he was seeking the oracles help for his own sake as much as Buffy's, and this time he wasn't even bothering with an offering. Either they'd help him or not. He had the feeling a gift really wouldn't make a difference.

Although it had been some time since he had last set foot underneath the post office, Angel moved mechanically. He tossed the herbs into the oracle's bowl, said the necessary incantation, and set the mass of dried plants on fire. Within seconds, he was granted entry into the halls of infinity, the oracles seemingly prepared and waiting there patiently for him.

"It has been some time, lower being," the female spoke first as she was wont to do. However, she surprised him when she went on further, "we've been expecting you."

Cynically, he remarked, "well, it seems like everyone knew besides me."

Quite simply, she told him, "bitterness does not suit you."

"And neither does desperation," the male oracle continued when she left off. "Before you speak, the answer is no. Just like before, we will not exchange your life for a mere mortal's."

"She's not a mere mortal; she's my daughter," Angel protested loudly, hotly. "A little girl," he reminded them, "that shouldn't even exist, considering _you_were supposed to have erased that day entirely."

"Is that what you wish," the male inquired, "for your child's presence to be destroyed?"

"No, of course not, and you know that," he told them. "But the fact remains that she is alive because of a mistake you made, and now she's suffering – dying – because of that same mistake. If you had the power to keep her alive despite turning back time, then you have the power to cure her."

"It is not a question of power, lower being," the female assured him. "It's simply a matter of what is to be."

"What should be is that my daughter should live! Take what you want from me – take my life, take my chance for redemption and humanity. I don't care. None of it will matter if she dies."

"That is where you are wrong," she continued, undaunted by his impassioned speech. "Your daughter is happy; she is loved."

"And, more importantly," the male oracle picked up where his female counterpart left off, "she is serving a purpose; her death will serve a purpose." Suddenly angry, he yelled accusingly at Angel. "Who are you, lower being, to judge the worthiness of a life, you who has raped and killed thousands, who would be in hell right now if it weren't for your own higher purpose, one that, right now, seems to have been wasted upon you. Go!"

"Leave here and do not return," the female instructed him. "The girl does not have much time left; she passes on soon. Once she does leave the mortal plane, you will soon become aware of her purpose, and then peace shall be yours."

He disappeared, then, with a mere flick of her wrist, pushed backwards through the sands of time and space to land sprawled upon the post office's basement floor. He felt chilled despite his usual lack of body heat, the hair on the back of his neck standing up at attention. Immediately, he was reminded of an expression his mother had said when he was a child. _A goose just walked across my grave_. While he had never understood the meaning of her words growing up, he suddenly comprehended them quite intimately.

Standing and dusting himself off, he moved slowly towards the exit of the building. Though heeding the female oracle's words, he wanted to return to his daughter's bedside as soon as he possible could, he also knew that, in doing so, he'd have to explain his sudden and hasty exit hours before to Buffy. With simply a passing remark about having to go see some people that he knew, he had left her sitting by their little girl, mouth agape with astonishment and confusion.

On top of his feelings regarding his upcoming confession, Angel was also unsure of how exactly he wanted to react to the oracle's words. There was no doubt that he was feeling saddened and irritated, but underneath his more readily accessible emotions was a vein of curiosity running through his system. He wondered what they had meant about his daughter's purpose and how exactly said purpose was eventually going to grant him peace. While the thought seemed unlikely, and while the oracles were nothing short of cringe-worthily annoying, they were also truth personified... if not wrapped up tightly in riddles. He had no doubt their predictions would come true; he just didn't understand how such pronouncements could possibly happen.

Time, the fickle bitch that she was, would tell.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Run**

He was pretty sure vampires couldn't have hangovers.

At the same time, though, he knew for a fact that vampires also didn't have souls, could never be loved by a slayer, and couldn't have children... but he experienced all three or, at least, _had experienced_all three at one point. He wasn't so sure anymore about Buffy's love, not even in a nostalgic, used to be boyfriend and girlfriend way.

Hangover or not, he felt miserable – languorous... in a very unpleasant way, tense, and above all nauseas, and, apparently, excessive drinking led vampires to find their inner teenager, because, as he walked into the hospital that early evening, Angel also felt all of about fifteen... and sounded as such as well.

Thankfully, though, Buffy would be at work. Although they hadn't been able to actually sit and talk about all their various issues, he did, at least, know her work schedule, and, even though she switched shifts the day before to be with Ash, she usually worked seconds and would be on duty for quite a few hours before returning to the hospital, giving him both time to compose himself and figure out a way to explain his inexcusable actions from the day before. Not only had he hightailed it out of their daughter's room without word or explanation, simply informing her that he had to go and meet with some people, sounding for all the world like a withdrawing, coke-addled junkie... or at least what he believed a withdrawing, coke-addled junkie would sound like, but then he had also disappeared for an entire day as well.

Despite his best intentions, when he had left the post office and the oracles behind, Angel had not been able to return to the hospital. Rationally, he knew that he wasn't disappointing either Buffy or Ashlinn by failing in his desperate endeavor, for they had been unaware of his errand in the first place, but he felt as though he had let them down anyway. He felt as though he had let himself down, too. For a man... an entity who was supposed to exist in order to help others in an effort to atone for his sins, to not be able to help his own child was a crushing blow to not only his pride but also his sense of self and sense of purpose. If he couldn't save his daughter, then who the hell was he really? Just a fake who tried his best but would never be good enough?

Oh, he knew such thoughts were self-indulgent and counterproductive, but he wallowed in them anyway, and, instead of driving back to Sunnydale General, he had directed his car towards Buffy's house, falling drunkenly into a near catatonic stupor, wrapped up in both the slayer's scent and the memories it evoked. His sleep had been restive and disturbed by what felt like nightmares but what were really simply portents into the future. He dreamed about his daughter's death, that inevitable heartbreak, Buffy's complete dismissal of him from her life, and his own floundering to come when both of the traumatizing events came to pass. In between what he felt were torturous glimpses into the future, he was taunted by the idea of Shanshu, its promise failing him even in slumber.

As soon as the sun had set, he had awakened to a dusky room and an even darker heart but knew that he couldn't put off his duty any longer. A good father would have gone straight to Buffy and Ash as soon as he left the oracles, failure or not, but Angel had no illusions about his capabilities as a dad; he knew they would be just as dismal as his capabilities as a man and a champion. However, be that as it may, he stood from Buffy's bed, leaving it tangled and messed from his hours of unconscious struggle, showered, dressed, fed, and drove to the hospital with a singular purpose in mind: to confess all without really saying anything, determined to keep the truth of the Shanshu Prophecy from Buffy no matter what, and simply go back to spending as much time with his daughter as he possibly could before... before.

His mind was muddled though with the remnants of either his drinking from the night before or the emotions said alcohol had only been able to exacerbate instead of mask, and his heart, figuratively speaking of course, was in his throat, choking and depriving him of every word he had prepared to say since rising with the dawn of the night. So, when he pushed open the door to Ash's hospital room, it wasn't the shock of seeing Buffy before him that made Angel remain silent; rather, it was his own fear.

The quiet between them didn't last for long, though. Before he could even form the idea of asking her why she wasn't as work, Buffy simply inquired, "what is Shanshu?"

It was the very last thing he expected to hear coming off her full, gorgeous lips, but, at the same time, it seemed the most natural question in the world to be faced with. Of course, anything he planned where the slayer was concerned wouldn't happen the way he wanted, and, of course, she would discover the one truth he never wanted her to learn of on her own. Or, on second thought, maybe she hadn't learned of the Prophecy on her own; maybe she had been talking to someone who knew better than to be talking to her.

"I see you've spoken with Spike."

"Spike," Buffy repeated somewhat ineptly, obviously confused and bewildered by what Angel had believed just a moment before to be a statement of fact. "What does Spike have to do with your drunken ramblings?" At his no doubt boggled look, she explained. "This afternoon... I heard you. I went home to shower and change before work and found you passed out in my bed, crying and moaning about something called Shanshu."

Soundly self-deprecating and like the Buffy he knew so well and loved so much despite everything, she admitted, "at first I thought you were simply confused and talking about sandals in your own totally ancient way, and then I thought maybe you were at the beach in your dream and got sand in your shoe, but then I stopped to really listen to what you were saying, and I realized that wasn't it at all. You weren't dreaming; you were having a nightmare. Is someone after you, Angel? Are you in trouble? Is it going to affect our daughter? Now that you know about her, I'm sure your enemies are already on their way." Pushing aside her worry in order to speak plainly, the slayer demanded once more to know, "what is Shanshu, Angel?"

He could have lied to her. He knew that. He could have taken the out she provided for him, claimed that Shanshu was some demon who was after him, and, in a way, it was, but, for Angel, there was a large difference between intentionally withholding the truth from Buffy and outright lying to her face. That, he wouldn't do. In fact, a part of him believed that he simply couldn't even if he wanted to.

Instead of answering right away, though, he nodded towards their daughter. "Is she okay right now?"

Buffy's brow pinched in thought, but she answered him in a straightforward manner anyway. "She just had her medication and should be asleep for the night."

"Good." Holding out his hand to her, he waited for her to place her much smaller palm in his. When she didn't, he explained, still keeping his hand held out towards her. "I will tell you what you want to know but not here. It's... it's big, Buffy, and this isn't something we should talk about in front of Ash. Take a walk with me?"

He could tell that she was hesitant, but, still, she did as he asked, placed her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her out of their little girl's hospital room. For some time, they walked in silence, neither of them willing to broach the subject they had so easily delved into just moments before. Smoothly, they moved through the still halls, eventually winding their way up onto the roof where they found the edge and sat down, side by side, with their legs dangling off the side of the large, white building. The night was immense around them, obliterating, and they of little consequence faded into the dark, muted shadows.

"It was towards the end of my first year in L.A. when we found the Shanshu Prophecy... stole it. I didn't even know what it was about or what it meant, but I somehow knew it was important. It took Wes quite a while to translate it, but, eventually, he succeeded, and it became apparent immediately why I had been so drawn to the ancient document. Apparently," Angel paused, sighed, and scrubbed a slightly shaking hand over his stress and worry lined face, "after the end of days, I'm to die... as I am now... only to live again – human... or, at least, a vampire with a soul will. Humanity will be my reward... or Spike's... for saving the world."

Buffy snorted, making her feelings towards the idea of the blonde vampire doing anything more than saving his own hide quite clear without the use of words being necessary. Despite himself, Angel laughed softly in response. Only Buffy could be so irreverent and flip during such a solemn conversation. It made him realize just how much he had missed her over the years.

Eventually, though, her curiosity insistent, she spoke, just as he knew she would. "I realize how hypocritical this is going to sound, but work with me here for a minute, okay? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I couldn't put you through that kind of waiting game, Buffy," he told her honestly, the words an echo from a conversation he had experienced years before with another woman, someone no more demanding but certainly far less worthy of an explanation.

"_And turn your gaze this way, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the new land speed record for romantic saps." Closing her eyes, Cordelia counted in an exaggerated manner, "one, two, three, four, five," increasing her put-upon excitement with each ascending number. Opening her heavily fringed lashes, she encountered Angel still standing before her. Looking exceedingly puzzled and just a smidgen annoyed... for Cordelia's standards, she asked, "what the hell are you still doing here?"_

_Wes had just finished translating the Shanshu Prophecy, and Angel was exhausted. He was also still slightly bewildered and scared... in a good way... by what the scroll had revealed. "Where else would I be?"_

_Ignoring him, the seer ranted and raved, "why aren't you half way to Sunnydale by now? I'm sure you're just itching to go off and find your one true love so you can tell her the good news – that you'll someday be a real live boy capable of giving her sunshine and picnics, babies and orgasms, leaving me unemployed... again! And, ugh!, don't even get me started on what you're going to be like until the humanity fairy waves its magic wand and blows its sparkly dust in your hair! Irritable with suppressed expectation, obnoxiously suburban with your white picket fence plans, and I don't even want to think about all the goofy smiles you're going to sport between now and your due date."_

_"Due date?"_

_"You know, when the powers give birth to you... again."_

_"Cordelia," Angel exhaled harshly, feeling much too drained to deal with his seer but incapable of not doing so. "I'm not going to Sunnydale, and I'm not going to tell Buffy." Before she could even utter another word, Angel added, "and neither are you for that matter."_

_"Don't you think you've given her enough surprises already? Hello," she called out loudly, dramatically, "does her seventeenth birthday not ring any bells for you?"_

_Collapsing into the nearest chair, Angel sighed once more. There was nothing that he wanted more in the world than to allow himself the hope for a relationship someday with Buffy, but he refused to give that same hope to the slayer. During their relatively short time together, he had already provided her with too many false promises and empty dreams. He wouldn't do such a thing again. Then, there was also the part of him that wondered if Buffy would even welcome such a hope still._

_Finally, glancing up at Cordelia who was waiting expectantly before him, hands on her hips, he asked, "don't you understand? I can't put her through that kind of waiting game, not for something so unsure."_

_"But it's a prophecy!"_

_"Prophecy's are vague and open to interpretation, fickle. Prophecy's are..."_

"... they're seldom wrong but seldom what you think either. Did I want to tell you about it? More than anything, Buffy," he confessed sincerely. "But, at the same time, I knew that, by telling you, I'd be putting your life on hold again for my own selfish needs and desires. What if it never came true? What if Wes was wrong in his translation, and I'd just die? And this was before Spike came strolling into my office, waving his ridiculous soul before me like a cape in a bull fight. Even if it does someday come true, what if it's too late then? What if you no longer care that I'm human, too, or what if... what if I'm the only one still fighting at the time? There are... were too many things I was unsure about. I couldn't tell you, no matter how much I wanted to."

"I see," Buffy said simply, momentarily surprising him by the sheer lack of feeling in her voice. But he should have known better. Within a blink of an eye, she acerbically charged, "you're making decisions for me. Again."

"Buffy, it wasn't like that. I..."

"Shanshu is about your future, Angel, which means that it's about my future, too."

"I get that now," he assured her, "because of Ash..."

Once more, she interrupted him. "Not because of Ash."

Flabbergasted, Angel stumbled back mentally several steps and was unable to say anything in response for a few minutes. However, before he could address her shocking revelation, Buffy changed the subject. "Where the hell did you go last night?"

Ineptly, he answered by reflex. "Oh, to see the oracles."

Her face scrunched up in puzzled thought. "You have a garden?"

Caught off guard by her astounding and unique Buffy thought process, it took him a few ticks to follow her jump of logic... or lack thereof. Without laughter, Angel said, "no, not okras, Buffy; oracles. You don't eat them."

"Well, just because I don't eat them doesn't mean you can't... or don't. Didn't. I don't know."

This time, he did laugh. "Trust me, I'd be dust in the wind before the thought to drain them even entered my mind. They're higher beings, Buffy."

"And you went to see them? How? The last time I checked, there's no American Airlines flight to... there."

"Actually, they're underneath the old L.A. post office... or, at least, the gateway that leads to them is. There's this whole ritual one has to do in order to gain entrance, but, if you know the steps and follow them accordingly, it's actually easier than you might think... to get in, at least."

"Okay," Buffy said cautiously, still somewhat unsure. "So, then, why did you go there... to see them?"

"I went to trade my Shanshu for Ash's life."

Despite his own calm demeanor, Buffy rocketed to her feet as though she had springs in her toes, stumbling back several steps in her agitation as she yelled, "you did what?"

He stood up as well, following her. "Don't." Pausing to swallow roughly, he then continued. "Don't get your hopes up. They turned me down before I could even actually suggest the idea." Holding out a hand towards her, he apologized. "I'm so sorry, Buffy. I tried, but..."

Shocking him, her hands flew up to land harshly against his chest, and Buffy shoved him back with great force before he could react and prepare himself. "Where the hell do you get off," she demanded irately. Unable to respond before she advanced upon him further, he felt her push him again as she railed, "not only are you _still_making my decisions for me, but did you even stop to think how many other people's lives would be affected by your rash actions?"

"Yes," he countered, though he wasn't even fully aware of his own words. "I thought about how our daughter would live, how you wouldn't lose our only child. I thought about Giles, and Willow, and even Xander, god damn him, and how they wouldn't lose the little girl they love and have sacrificed so much for."

Her anger suddenly gone – either drained or replaced by some other powerful emotion, Angel couldn't tell, Buffy lowered her voice. "Even after all these years... Angel, we don't get to make life and death choices for other people. Yes, we can fight evil to save lives, and, yes, in doing so, we do prevent others from dying, but it's not our job to pick who lives and who dies. We're not that powerful; we're not supposed to be, and, if we were, well... that'd just be wrong. We're not made to withstand that kind of pressure.

"I understand that you don't want Ashlinn to die. Do you think that I do? The thought of this world... of living without her nearly brings me to my knees, but I keep fighting. For her. If the oracles would have granted your request, yes, she would have lived, but for how much longer. Your humanity, or so you said, is supposed to be your reward for saving the world. If you don't have that, if you take the prophecy away, what then? Do you still manage to win, or does the world die instead, taking our daughter with it? Billions of lives for one. While your heart might want, might crave for such a result, your conscience could never survive it, Angel. Mine couldn't even live with the idea of one life for another – yours for our daughter's."

She walked away then, but it wasn't the same as all those times he had either pushed her away or walked away himself. She simply turned around and left him alone with his thoughts, something far more frightening than facing her wrath or her grief.

Although he wasn't sure what her words meant exactly, he did know how they made him feel: contrite, perplexed, but, above all else, touched, too, his desolation abated a tiny fraction.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Fragment**

_Several Weeks Later, August_

For so many years, he had been a cliché. As an Irishman, Angel had been besotted by whisky; as a soulless vampire, he lived for the blood, whether consumed or spilled for his pleasure and enjoyment. Yes, he had been infamous for his cruelty, but what other vampire of his time hadn't been capable of the same level of violence? They had either chosen to be more discreet, or their exploits had simply not been as thoroughly recorded. No matter the reason, his fellow bloodsuckers had been far less of a stereotype.

Once he regained his soul, though, suddenly, Angel had become unique for the first time in his life, and he was distinctly aware of the fact, almost proud of it despite his otherwise rather melancholic state of emotions. As far as he was aware, no other vampire had lived for decades in squalor and suppressed appetite, and he knew, when it came to his most recent history, he was one of a kind. He had loved a slayer – still did no matter how confused his feelings towards Buffy were at the moment, and she had returned his love. He had been returned from hell. He fought for the powers that be. He had friends. He had a daughter.

However, despite his rare existence and knowledge of just how lucky he was to possess such wonderful, unprecedented gifts, Angel was once more a cliché. He was a creature drowning in his feelings, consumed by love and hate – perhaps the two most powerful sensations a being could experience. It was like fire and ice were raging a war inside of his body so that he was in a constant state of flux, freezing and melting without any notice or control. He felt like one of those hapless victims in the movies, tied to a ticking bomb against his will, scared to die but even more scared of taking so many others down with him with no hope of a last minute hero showing up to rid him of his crushing burden.

He kept his emotions to himself, though. After all, who was there in Sunnydale that he could actually talk to? And then there was also the fact that he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know what exactly he was feeling. It was hard enough to admit it silently to himself. He was ashamed of his rage, especially in light of the fact that, while his anger simmered, his daughter got closer and closer to death with each second that passed by. He felt as though he should have been focused upon Ashlinn – and he was, but, at the same time, there was a part of Angel always focused upon Buffy – thinking about what she had done to him and their only child by keeping her secret, loving her, hating her.

They had talked. And talked. And then talked some more. For the past several weeks, Buffy had been explaining to him her state of mind and her decisions to keep Ash from him, how at first it had been out of hurt and malice but then, after she had discovered their daughter's disease, she had remained quiet to spare him the pain they were both currently drowning in. She had told him stories about Ash's childhood, about her dreams of a future their daughter would never get to experience, and he had listened like a musician at a symphony after being deprived of music for years. Their conversations, though, were mainly one sided and distant. Buffy was either too afraid to show him how she felt or too drained; he simply couldn't express his emotions.

Angel knew that, if he released even a molecule of what was simmering inside of him at the moment, he'd burn any and all possible bridges that still existed between himself and the slayer. As a parent, he couldn't allow that to happen; as someone who was still in love with her, the idea of being so removed from Buffy was unfathomable. But, still, those bridges remained uncrossed. Despite the fact that they were still whole, the sun was out, the water beneath was holy water, and the bridges themselves had an odd way of splintering when stepped upon, sending tiny shards of deathly matter flying up into the air, seeking a target for their blind justice. In essence, allowing himself to be close to Buffy seemed like it would kill him, but being any further away from her would have been equally as torturous.

He knew, though, that they wouldn't be able to remain in their constant state of limbo much longer. Not that he wasn't capable of denying himself for years at a time, but Buffy wasn't. Sooner or later, she'd demand a confrontation. A part of Angel anticipated such a moment and looked forward to it, while another feared such a time more so than he feared his daughter's death. After three weeks of seeing his little girl suffer and deteriorate, he had come to accept that her life was quickly expiring, and there was nothing he could do to help her besides be there to love her. But he couldn't accept the idea of a life without Buffy in it... somehow. Even if they were separated by one hundred miles and not speaking, as long as she was alive and there was, at least, a shred of compassion and feeling left between them, he could survive night after night to fight the next day, figuratively speaking of course.

Despite knowing how important she was to him, Angel simply couldn't dismiss and get over his rage towards the slayer. He wanted to. He'd tried to over and over again since the moment he found out he was a father, but it just wasn't that easy. Because of Buffy's decisions – right or wrong, selfish or selfless, he had lost years of his daughter's life only to discover her identity when it was practically too late. If they were lucky, he'd have months with her; if he wasn't, Ash would die the next day. Unfortunately, their situation simply wasn't a mind over matter one.

As he thought, contemplated, accepted and yet, at the same time, rebelled against his own thoughts, Angel watched the object of his inner turmoil. Ashlinn had managed to live until her fourth birthday, and they were going to celebrate it that afternoon with a small party in the little girl's hospital room. While Ash slept peacefully... or as peacefully as a terminally ill child could sleep... in the bed beside him, Buffy and her friends and family decorated the bland, sterile space with colorful streamers, signs, and balloons, transforming the white walls and plastic furniture into a veritable spectrum of birthday bliss, one that Ash couldn't even see.

At first, he had wondered why they went to such trouble when the little girl was blind, but then Angel realized that the decorations were as much for everyone else as they were for Ashlinn. Whereas he never wanted to leave his daughter's side, electing to sit by her bed day and night, holding her hand, Buffy preferred to remain busy, as though running herself into the ground with work and mindless, pointless errands and chores could actually manage to distract her for even just a second. Plus, they could all see, and sometimes adults were the ones who needed all the visual claptrap that children simply had no use for. While Ash would be perfectly content with singing, cake, and presents, Buffy, Willow, Giles, and Xander needed the hospital room to look like a party in order to actually believe in it.

So, they decorated, and he sat – in the same chair, on the same side of the bed, holding his daughter's hand as though their connection was the very lifeline keeping her alive. Such a thought was ridiculous, especially considering that he was technically dead himself, but still he held on anyway, only letting go to shower and change his clothes once a day. He even ate in front of his little girl, satisfied that she'd never know there was blood inside his coffee mug and not a caffeinated beverage.

He did have a job, though. While Xander was in charge of blowing up the balloons – a fitting job in Angel's opinion given how much hot air the man possessed, Willow painted the signs, Buffy hung things up, and Giles went around with a ruler and a level, checking Buffy's work and annoying the slayer to no end, he was to distract Ash if she woke up, keep her occupied so that she wasn't aware of all the actions surrounding her. Even though the little girl knew it was her birthday, she didn't know that her family was going to such lengths to give her as normal of a special day as possible.

Oh, and Spike was there, too. Why, Angel wasn't sure. After all, there wasn't any booze, vampires couldn't really taste food, and no one had purchased the bleached blonde a present. He had a sneaking suspicion that his coworker and rival was present in the hopes of either witnessing another scene between himself and Buffy or because he was planning to smash birthday cake in Angel's face, knowing that Angel would never retaliate or try to stake him with his little girl so close. However, afterwards...

"Do I look like you, Angel-Daddy?"

Even though he had believed his daughter to be asleep, the sound of her question didn't startle him. He was always prepared for the moment when she woke up, eager to spend as much time with her as he possibly could. However, the question itself was slightly startling. Everyone else in the room – surprisingly, even Spike – froze as they waited for him to respond, but he ignored them, swiveling in his chair slightly so that his back was towards everyone else and his attention was solely focused upon Ash. Even if she couldn't see his focus, he wanted her to feel it.

Despite both his own attempts and Buffy's to explain that Angel was just his name, their daughter persisted in calling him Angel-Daddy, as though she believed him to be a celestial being. While the matter couldn't be further from the truth, he understood the little girl's confusion. Although he had learned that Buffy had shared stories about him with their child over the years, he had never been a presence in Ash's life, only to show up one day unannounced and out of the blue. Plus, she was deathly ill and knew it. It made sense that she would think him dead and eternal, a heavenly body sent to welcome her eventually to her own eternal rest.

Well, she was two-thirds right anyway.

For a moment, Angel wondered if, because of her age, Ash simply couldn't identify her own features in correlation with his, because, though she was now fully blind, that hadn't always been the case, and he knew that she had seen herself thousands of times in the mirror, and surely Buffy, if she was willing to tell Ash about him, had shown the child pictures. But then he remembered that Buffy didn't have any pictures of him to show their little girl. Despite her insistence when they were dating, he had been adamant about not being photographed either together or separately. While it hadn't been because of some left over, superstitious fear, Angel didn't want to be confronted with his own ageless countenance. It was one thing to realize that he'd never mature, grow old, become wrinkled; it was quite a different matter to see such truths for himself captured in undeniable proof.

Taking a deep breath and smiling... for he knew that Ash could sense such things, Angel responded, "I think you look like both your mom and me."

"That's what mommy says."

Before he could say more, he heard Buffy sigh behind him before returning silently to her work. Still, for several silent moments, Angel contemplated the best way to express to his child their likeness to each other. Granted, he could simply tell her, but he didn't feel that mere words were good enough. Rather, he wanted to show her that she truly was his daughter and that he truly was her daddy, angel or not.

As inspiration struck, he released the hand he held slowly, uncurled the fingers that had been clenched gently within his own, and lifted the slender, tiny digits to run them over his features. "We have the same eyes," he said, carefully trailing her hand across his own lids and lashes before moving it to mimic the action upon Ash's face. "They're dark brown – like chocolate your mommy always said, but I think that's because she was always hungry." After Ash laughed, he continued, "we both have long, thick lashes, but yours aren't as dark as mine, because your hair is lighter."

Moving his daughter's fingers back to his own face, Angel ran the tips of them across his cheekbones. "Do you feel how prominent... how far my cheek bones stick out? Yours are the same way. And our noses are the same, too." To display this, he guided her little digits up and down and across his own nose and then moved them to feel her own.

"Your mommy's probably glad that you didn't inherit her nose. You know, she's never been fond of it. Said it was weird. Different. But that's why I always liked it. It was special, something that was just your mom's that made her stand out from the crowd... amongst other things, of course. But, now, because _you_have my nose, it's special, too. Whenever I see one like it, I'll think of you."

Even when he let go of her hand, though, Ash didn't stop her explorations. Lifting it back to his face, she ran her petal soft fingers over his chin and lips, his ears, his brows as though trying to see him through touch. He had no doubt that she could actually do such a thing, but, at the same time, he was still aggrieved that his daughter should be forced to use her other senses in order to have what so many others – himself included – took for granted: sight.

Eventually, she giggled, and the sound closed around him like a comforting embrace. "Angel-Daddy, your forehead's big." Immediately, his gaze ricocheted to Spike, prepared to glare him into silence so as to not ruin Buffy's surprise party, but the other vampire was silent, appearing almost... awed. For a second, Angel contemplated studying the bleach blonde, curious as to what thoughts were swirling through his chipped mind, but the urge dissipated almost immediately. Showering all of his attention upon Ash was much more important than understanding why Spike hadn't taken advantage of such an easy opportunity for a forehead joke.

The morning passed peacefully. Between mapping out his features with her hands and taking short naps, Ashlinn was perfectly unaware of anything and everything around her, allowing her mother and honorary family members to finish preparing for her birthday party. The event itself went by smoothly if not slightly in a disjointed manner. Though everyone pretended for both the little girl's sake and their own to be infused to the brim with joy and excitement, there was a palpable sense of suspended reality in the air, and, occasionally, the bubble would burst, and, for just a moment, they would all flounder adrift in their unquenchable grief and despair.

For Angel, the afternoon soiree was almost surreal. Though he did and said everything expected of him, his mind wasn't actually in the hospital room. He hated wasting the only birthday he'd ever experience at his daughter's side, but the intimate affair, though visually different, simply reminded him too much of another birthday celebration he had witnessed years before, and his attention was distracted, divided.

_He wasn't sure why he was there. If nothing else, Buffy had made it perfectly clear the last time he was in Sunnydale that he shouldn't come back if all he was going to do was lurk in the shadows. However, after their day together that technically never actually happened, he knew that there was no way he could have been anywhere else that evening. The pull he felt towards Buffy had simply been too strong. While they were no longer together, he still loved her more than anything else in the world, and, while they weren't even in each others lives anymore, without the knowledge that she still lived, he wouldn't have a life._

_So, ignoring what he had known would be her wishes, Angel had driven to Sunnydale as soon as the sun set. As carefully as he possibly could, he hovered in the shadows of her mother's front porch, watching from outside through the window as those gathered around the dining room table quietly yet sincerely celebrated the slayer's birthday. He wasn't surprised that Buffy had insisted upon such a simple affair. After all, two terrible, nightmare worthy birthdays in a row would put anyone off big celebrations, but he also wasn't surprised that her friends and family had insisted that they do something to mark the occasion._

_What he wouldn't have done to be a part of the small, intimate meal – to be allowed to sit down at Joyce Summer's table as a welcome guest, to laugh and smile with Willow and Giles, to hold Buffy's free hand with his own underneath the tablecloth as they both slowly ate their way through all of Buffy's favorite dishes. They'd spend hours at the table, sitting there long after the meal itself was over simply to share in the warmth of companionship. Eventually, though, the hour would become late, and everyone would depart, going their separate ways. He and Buffy would return home together, sharing an even more intimate and private conclusion to the slayer's birthday where he would present her with her gift and hold her all night until the anniversary of her birth lapsed and the next day dawned. However, such evenings were an impossibility for him._

_Buffy, on the other hand though, could have all those wonderful, amazing things... just with another man. A part of him was thrilled as he gazed into the Summers' dining room to see that no one filled the chair he had envisioned himself in. He had heard that she was dating someone else, someone new, but their relationship, if nothing else, at least hadn't progressed to the point where she brought him home for family dinners. It was just Buffy, her mother, Giles, Willow, and Xander, but the immense joy that surrounded the slayer proved just how happy she was to share her day with those in her company._

Looking back, Angel realized that the glow he had witnessed within Buffy that night four and half years prior had not been because of her happiness concerning her birthday but rather the result of the seed of their love blossoming and blooming inside of her – his seed. While bodily he might have been lingering, lurking outside, shielded from the warmth of the celebration by the physical presence of the Summers' house and the mythological presence of his demon barring him from humanity, his spirit, his soul had still been with Buffy – tiny, incomplete, and perhaps even an unconscious part ever growing inside of her. Despite all their numerous conversations, he still didn't know exactly when she had realized he was her child's father.

Glancing up, his gaze immediately sought out the object of his contemplations – as always, and he noticed that, while she talked and laughed with Ash, her friends, Giles, and even Spike, there was a nearly infinitesimal dollop of icing on the edge of her bottom lip. Almost without thought... as if instinctively, Angel reached out a hand to wipe the stain away, only freezing when he realized the intimacy of his own actions, the emotional consequences. It was an abrupt stoppage, one far too brusque to not be noticed, and Buffy winced in realization.

A part of him wanted to reassure her that it wasn't what she thought, but _he_didn't even know what his hesitance meant. How could he convince her of something he himself didn't even understand? And it wasn't the last time the two of them shared awkward, tense, hurtful moments that afternoon. Small, nearly empty jokes were exchanged between Xander and Spike, or Willow and Spike, or Giles and Xander, or even once between Giles and Spike, and Buffy would attempt to catch his eye in order to share a private, compassionate glance as well, but he would brush off her attempt at closeness, at secret, supportive intimacy, depriving her of the connection he knew they both so desperately needed.

And then he gave Ash her present – a miniature, rose gold locket, promising to draw her two portraits, one of her mother and one of himself, to put inside of the piece of jewelry so that she'd always have her parents with her, close to her heart. He hadn't meant it to be an emotional gift; it was just something that Angel felt his little girl needed and would want, but, after giving it to his daughter and explaining it to her, he realized just how significant it actually was. With tears in her hazel gaze, Buffy reached for his hand, but he shook off her gesture, carefully pushing her touch aside even before her fingers could close around his own. She shuddered at his rebuff, clenched her shoulders in pain, and refused to look at him for the rest of the afternoon, almost running out the door later when it was time for her to leave for her shift.

Long after she was gone and everyone else had left as well, Angel remained alone in the hospital room with his daughter. She was asleep, and he was inside his own head. It was how they spent nearly every evening when Buffy was at work. Cloaked by the reassurance of sleep and dreams, his daughter was oblivious to his feelings, to the love and hate that surged powerfully through his seated form. While his heart yearned for Buffy's nearness, his mind, his pride, his very love that craved her so much was, at the same time, frozen against her. Ice and flame danced within him. He knew that eventually his passion for his child's mother would win; fire always melted ice, but, once that hardness dissolved, he feared he'd be washed away in a sea of his own tears, the madness of grief consuming him in a drowning flash flood.

In the past, Buffy and his love for her had always been his life preserver. That's why he feared his own rage. While it still burned, if he pushed her too far away, would she still be there to keep him afloat when the damn broke, and, if not, what would save him then? Who? Because his daughter would soon die, and Angel was already dead.


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: The poem used in this chapter is __"maggie and milly and molly and may" by E.E. Cummings._

**Chapter Twenty-Five: It's All Over but the Crying**

_One Month Later..._

"Knock, knock."

Angel didn't understand why humans did that – physically knock with their hand while announcing their actions as well. It was redundant and simply made no sense. Of course, vampires did no such thing. Besides the fact that such behavior was usually a precursor to someone then entering without invitation to do so – something vampires couldn't do, creatures of the night also employed stealth in their actions. They weren't as... obvious.

Without having to turn around, he listened as Doctor Welby did just that – slipped through the door she had opened just seconds before to move slowly and what she believed to be silently into the room. Little did she know that, unlike his daughter, he could hear every single sound she made – the squeak of her athletic shoes' soles as they traveled across the floor, the rustling like leaves that her scrubs made as her limbs interpreted her brain's commands and moved accordingly, her easy, repetitive breathing, the steady metronome that was her heart.

Slipping a solitary finger into the book of poetry he had been reading from out loud, Angel marked his place, though such an instinctive action was pointless. He knew exactly where he was. In fact, he could recite the silly, innocent poem aloud if he wanted to. Not his usual taste, it was appropriate for children, something he thought his daughter might enjoy... if she were awake and didn't have to strain to hear every single word. He had been given just a few short weeks with the little girl before her hearing started to fade as well. Though he was resigned to the fact that Ash would never see his face, he feared that she'd forget his voice, too - raged internally against such a thought. Yes, the gift of sight was beautiful and worth treasuring, but, in his only child's final moments, he wanted her to be able to hear him comforting her, his voice a calm bath of serenity and reassurance in an otherwise unfeeling, cruel world. Angel felt as though it was the only thing he could offer her besides the lifeline of his touch – his hand holding hers in her final moments, but, now, that, too, was being taken from them.

_maggie and milly and molly and may  
went down to the beach (to play one day)_

Realistically, he knew that he couldn't blame Doctor Welby for what was just the latest symptom in the long line of Ash's deterioration, but he did anyway. In fact, irrationally, Angel blamed everyone – most of all himself, and he was furious with the physician for interrupting his alone time with his daughter. Coldly, without expression, he watched as the woman took a seat across from him, remaining silent as she, too, observed him. It was late, long past the point where he would have thought the doctor at home and safely tucked in bed... or, at least, as safely as any person in Sunnydale could possibly be, and, admittedly, he wondered why she was there – at the hospital, obviously wanting to discuss something with him instead. He knew, however, that she could not offer any good news about Ashlinn's condition, so her presence just felt like an intrusion, one he wanted to be rid of as soon as possible, humanly or not.

Due to the ever-present tension between them – something he regretted but simply couldn't push aside or hide from, he and Buffy had agreed to split Ash's time, each receiving twelve hours in their daughter's presence daily. While his time encompassed the night, allowing Buffy to work and perhaps grab a few hours of rest before returning to the hospital, he used the daylight to think, to mourn, and to drink. Though he had yet to become drunk again, sitting alone in his former apartment underneath the city in the forged darkness of the warehouse basement alone with his thoughts, the hours went by too slowly. The burn of whisky sliding down his throat had become his friend, the momentary bursts of oblivion his only joy. While he could have retired to the mansion, for it still stood empty, the apartment just seemed more appropriate.

_And maggie discovered a shell that sang  
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and_

Introspectively, Doctor Welby folded her hands, tilted her head, and narrowed her gaze in Angel's direction. "Compared to how long I've known Buffy, you and I have just met, but one doesn't do what I do for a living without learning a thing or two about reading people – body language, facial expressions... or lack thereof." As if pausing to allow her statement to sink in, the physician waited for several quiet moments before continuing. "You're an intelligent man. That, at least, I've been able to decipher about you, though I admit not much else, so surely you know that the end – _her _end – will be here soon."

It wasn't a question but a declaration of his awareness towards his daughter's impending mortality. When he didn't respond and simply remained impassively impatient for her to leave, the Doctor Welby pressed, "there are certain things that we need to discuss."

He assumed that she meant the preparations for Ash's death, and he turned physically away from her, providing her with a black clad shoulder instead of the pale white granite of his face. While he knew his daughter would soon no longer be a part of the living realm, it was still too soon to contemplate burial decisions and organ donation. While the doctor was merely being proactive, it felt as though she were asking him to give up on his little girl then and there, to unplug the machines and to cease the medications that were keeping his daughter alive.

Despite his rude dismissal, though, the doctor persisted, and the words that came softly from her mouth – almost remotely because of the overwhelming din of his own thoughts – were shocking in their unpredictability. "Buffy never meant for you to know about your daughter, did she?" Accepting his silence as admission, she said, "I'm not sure what would be worse: bearing the brunt of this disease alone and keeping such a secret or learning about it when it's already too late to wrap your mind around it. I don't envy either of you."

Doctor Welby stood then, pacing casually around the room as she continued to speak. Relenting somewhat, Angel pivoted to observe her, his features still guarded, though, against her watchful, curious eye. He knew that, despite her professionalism, the physician wondered about the history between himself and Buffy, and, though she'd never be as brash as to come right out and ask them, she wanted to know how two people, two parents with what were, at least, very strong feelings of some kind between them ever ended up in such an impossible situation. He wanted to know the same thing, too, but couldn't bring himself to ask either.

"Tay-sachs is never easy, most of all for the family left behind once the child dies." Once more, the woman shifted the focus of their conversation. Angel followed her dutifully. "I think it's the feeling of helplessness and the sense of responsibility that parents feel that hurt them the most. They blame themselves for giving their child the disease, and then they blame themselves for not being able to do anything about it... no matter how many times we as doctors tell them that they're not superheroes." But he and Buffy were... in a way. "I've seen the disease destroy marriages, drive parents to the point of illness, and cause a few suicides... and that was with situations much healthier than yours."

_milly befriended a stranded star  
whose rays five languid fingers were;_

"Look, what I'm saying is this," Doctor Welby announced haltingly. The rapid alteration of her tone – from bitter reminisce to harsh accusation – made Angel pay particular attention, and he couldn't help but notice how tightly the physician gripped the end of Ash's bed when she turned upon him, the passion of her opinion draining the color from her otherwise healthy countenance and making her pale brown eyes spark with barely leashed intensity. "You – the both of you – need to snap out of it. I know it's hard, I know you're angry, and I know you feel as though you're dying right along with your daughter, but you're not, and that's the point. Somehow, someway, you have to find a way to survive this... if not for yourselves than for your daughter.

"I've never lost a child of my own to Tay-sachs, so I can't tell you that I've been in your shoes and understand how you're feeling, but I have lost patients, far too many for your daughter's death not to hurt me as well. I have made it my life's work to fight Tay-sachs Disease... as much as it possibly can be fought. Do you realize how humbling, how damn hard it is to get up day after day and go to work knowing that what I do doesn't really make a difference? Other doctors fight cancer, fix broken hearts, deliver babies; I slowly kill them. Oh, I know it's not really like that," she admitted with a sigh and careless shrug of her shoulders. "I didn't create the disease, and, with every case presented to me, I do everything within my power to ease the patient's suffering, but it's never enough. So, yeah, while I can't empathize with you as a parent, I still know that empty feeling that's currently inside of you, and, more importantly, I also know that you can't deal with it alone.

"I've told Buffy this, and now I'm telling you: you need to allow yourselves to seek help, especially if you're not going to be there for each other." At his narrowed gaze towards her perceptiveness, Doctor Welby laughed softly. "We're busy – doctors and nurses, but we're not blind, and we're certainly not dispassionate. I've seen – and so have the rest of the staff – just how distant you and Buffy are towards each other. You refuse to sit in your daughter's room together. At least, in the beginning, you were talking, probably angrily so, but any communication is better than none. Now, you barely acknowledge one another, and, what's worse, the distance between you is putting a strain on Buffy's friends and family as well. They don't visit nearly as much, and, when they do, they're more worried about the two of you than they are about dealing with their own feelings towards the fact that a little girl that they love, too, is dying."

_and molly was chasing a horrible thing  
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and_

Taking a deep breath, the doctor pushed herself away from the bed and stood up straight. "But at least they have each other. They'll be fine. You and Buffy, on the other hand... I don't think you will be. There are support groups for people who have either gone through or are currently going through the very same thing that you are, people that will talk to you and who will listen if you feel like talking yourself. I've tried to get Buffy to go already, but she wouldn't listen, so, now, I'm going to try with you... even though I think I'm wasting my breath again.

"If you care at all about the mother of your child, get her to seek help, and, if you don't, at least care enough about yourself to go to these meetings. Maybe I haven't lost a child to Tay-Sachs Disease, and maybe I don't know your daughter as well as you or Buffy do, but I do know one thing about Ashlinn: she would not want you or her mother to die, and, if either or you continue the way you're currently going, then that's probably what's going to happen. The good news is that Sunnydale has a lot of cemeteries; the bad news: your deaths would be such a fucking waste and an insult to your daughter's memory. For a little girl who fights so damn hard to live for as long as she possibly can – enjoying each and every day despite the pain she's in and the bum hand that she's been dealt, I have no idea where she gets her strength of mind or character. Definitely not from you, and definitely not from her mother." With one last pitying glance in his direction, the doctor added, "think about what I've said," and left.

_may came home with a smooth round stone  
as small as a world and as large as alone._

He already knew he wasn't going to attend a support group. Besides the fact that they probably met during the day, he wasn't one to share his feelings, and he certainly wasn't going to insult living, breathing, mourning parents with the mockery of his presence. He was death personified, an animated corpse who, though his daughter was innocent and undeserving of such a cruel death, should never have been granted such a miracle. He was still atoning for the chance to have his own life; a child was too perfect to be born from his sins.

But there was Buffy to consider; Doctor Welby had made some decent points. He wondered, though, if the slayer felt as alienated from even the idea of such a group as he did. They were creatures of action. They fought. They destroyed. They killed. They weren't given time to explore their own feelings or the luxury of self-expression. There was always the next battle to be waged, the next evil to conquer. While others might claim to be sympathetic and ready to listen to them talk, no one wanted to hear what it was they had to say.

_Doyle was dead._

_For three years, he had watched Buffy allow humans to fight alongside her, risking their tentative hold on life day after day with no little amount of worry but always managing to save them when necessary. Doyle had been with him for a little more than three months, and already Angel had failed to protect his friend. Was Los Angeles just that much more dangerous than Sunnydale? Given the fact that his former home was situated above the Hellmouth, he was pretty sure such an idea was mere wishful thinking._

_It wasn't Los Angeles that was more dangerous; he was._

_"This," Cordelia announced, stepping into his office and motioning between the two of them, "isn't healthy." For the first time since he had found the brunette and allowed her to work for him, Angel agreed with her. "You're like in this serious funk, and it's making my hair droop and my skin feel – thankfully not look – blotchy. It's like your brooding is a contagious virus in the air, and I have several auditions this week. I can't afford to look anything but my best."_

_Okay, so maybe they weren't on the same page._

_Before he could respond, though, say whatever it was that Cordelia wanted him to say so that she would leave him alone once more, the secretary sighed heavily and collapsed into a chair across from him and his desk. "Alright, so maybe I'm in a funk, too, but it's all your fault," she persisted in blaming him. "You're the boss. You should do something to improve the morale around here. Give a speech. Redecorate. Buy me a present."_

_Relenting immediately, Angel asked, "what do you want?"_

_"Angel!"_

_"What," he bellowed, frustrated. Running a hand through his hair and then roughly scrubbing his face for several time-buying moments, he attempted to regain his control over his temper. Looking at her once more, he pointed out, "you said that you wanted a present. I'll buy you one. I'll do whatever you want as long as we can stop talking."_

_"But we need to talk."_

_"No. We don't."_

_"Yes. We do."_

_If nothing else could be said about Cordelia, she was stubborn. It was probably the only reason why the girl was still alive. By sheer strength of will and conviction, she could probably talk a vampire out of biting her, and that impenetrable will had also managed to save her from financial ruin, social homicide, and the cruel and dangerous world of show-business. If she wanted to talk, there was no way he was going to be able to get rid of her until she did so._

_"Fine. Talk. I'll listen."_

_"While I would normally take advantage of such an offer, especially considering the fact that I'm pretty sure you usually block me out whenever I speak to you, that's not what I meant, Angel," she informed him. "This time, you're going to be the one talking, and I'm going to listen."_

_Aside from his doubts that his secretary was capable of such a miraculous feat, talking was the very last thing he felt like doing. "There's nothing to say."_

_"Of course there is," Cordelia persisted, standing up and leaning towards him over his desk. "Doyle died."_

_"I know that."_

_"Yeah, you might know it, but have you accepted it yet? I hate that he's gone, too, Angel, but at least I'm not closing myself off from what I'm feeling and shutting down. I allow myself to cry, and, when I go home at night, I talk to Dennis about him, remembering things he said and did and telling Dennis my favorite Doyle stories. You need to do the same thing."_

_"I'm Irish, Cordelia. You don't have to tell me how to mourn."_

_Popping out a hip and glaring at him, she argued, "well, apparently, I do, because you're about to explode with grief, and I can't take it anymore."_

_Acerbically, he snapped, "we can't have that now, can we?"_

_But she seemed neither insulted nor hurt by his comment and simply waved the barb aside with a casual flick of her wrist and a petulant roll of her big, dark eyes. "Claws and fangs, big boy." Retaking her seat, Cordelia said, "since we both know you don't have any friends, and I can't quite picture you having a conversation with yourself... probably because of the whole no reflection thing. I always find my best conversations with myself happen when I'm looking in the mirror, but anyway..." Waving aside her thought, she pressed on. "I guess, since there really isn't another option, I'll let you talk to me. Cry. Rage. Tell me a story about Doyle. Just don't sing, okay?"_

_"Cordelia, while I appreciate your offer..." He really didn't. "I'm a vampire."_

_"With a soul," she added helpfully._

_"The point is that I have an eternity to mourn Doyle... and everyone else I've lost or killed. Talking about it isn't going to make me magically better. I will feel Doyle's loss and remember it everyday. You can't just snap your fingers and expect me to perform, talk to you for a few minutes and then be over it. I'll deal with my grief in my own way, and I'll thank you to mind your own business now and in the future."_

_Standing up, she looked down upon him. "Fine, but don't expect me to feel sorry for you."_

_"Wouldn't dream of it."_

_With a flourish of hair, perfume, and last season's designer clothing, Cordelia spun around and left his office, slamming the door behind her. It was an appropriate punctuation to their conversation, Angel felt._

He'd like to stand up and slam the door – any door in that moment, the doctor's words from minutes before and his memories of Cordelia's ringing in his ears, but Angel wouldn't risk causing such a disruption. Not that he feared doing so would wake his daughter, but he knew it would draw the attention of the light nursing staff, making at least one of Ash's caregivers come to check and see that everything was alright.

No, he wouldn't slam the door, but he wouldn't talk to anyone either. After all, moving on from a loss and getting back to one's life didn't quite seem that important when one was already dead and eternal anyways. However, Buffy's life was finite, and she was very much alive and would, eventually, be in need of a way to move on from the loss of their daughter. She would need someone to talk to, some form of a support system, something or someone to give her hope. Even if Angel was in a position to be that person for her, he wasn't sure Buffy would accept his help. If he were in her shoes, he wouldn't.

But that was something to worry about later. For now, Ash was still alive – still living, and breathing, and fighting right there beside him. He'd think about Buffy tomorrow, or next week, or in a month's time; for the moment, there was only room in his thoughts for his little girl, so Angel stayed firmly rooted in the present. The idea of the future, of an existence without his child, was too bleak and was relegated into the distance, everything else, including his concerns for Buffy, cast aside with it.

Picking up and opening his book of poetry once more, Angel finished reading the piece he had started what felt like hours before. "For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it's always ourselves we find in the sea."

Drowning.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Trouble Sleeping**

_One Month Later..._

If there was one thing Angel knew that he wasn't, it was a storyteller.

Okay, so there were many things he knew that he couldn't do – just about anything and everything that had to do with performance... bar starring as a circus freak, but even that would come with limitations given his status as a strict night owl, but telling his little girl stories about himself shouldn't, he felt, be as difficult for him as it was. After all, not only could he draw upon more than two hundred years of various experiences, but he had also been an avid reader for a healthy portion of those many years. Yes, editing was of course required, but he was shocked to discover just how much of his more recent life was tainted beyond cleansing and how much of it he simply couldn't share, not even with his daughter.

To make matters worse, Angel also refused to lie to her. If he didn't have such reservations, telling his only child stories about himself would have been much easier. His many forays into danger could have become swash-buckling tales of adventure and mayhem, all of course concluding with a happy ending. If he didn't have such reservations, he'd be able to paint himself as a hero in his daughter's sightless eyes. Given the fact that they would only have such a short time together, a part of him did want Ash to think the best possible things about her father, but the more realistic aspect of his personality knew that such knowledge would be fraudulent, and, if he allowed his daughter to die believing him to be something that he wasn't, then she'd go to her grave without actually ever knowing him.

Now, that didn't mean that he shared tales of Angelus with her before she went to bed at night. Even putting aside his own qualms about dredging up such painful and bloody recollections, his little girl had far too much on her own plate already to fight; he didn't need to burden her further with his demons as well. Although the disintegration of her hearing had not progressed further, her motor skills were failing. So far, Ashlinn had been left paralyzed from the waist down, and they feared the paralysis would spread until the point where it killed her.

"Have you ever ridden in a convertible at night with the top down?"

Satisfied with his question, with the vein of conversation he was introducing between himself and his daughter, Angel smiled slightly until he heard his little girl's response. It wasn't the fact that she had never experienced the simple pleasure but the fact that, with the loss of the majority of her hearing, her speaking skills had also declined. With less of an ability to hear her own voice, Ash now spoke in a monotone, her words expressed in a halting, non-rhythmic manner. His tiny moment of if not happiness than peace disappeared even more quickly than it had occurred in the first place.

"What's a comfortable?"

He almost laughed at his daughter's pronunciation mistake, thinking that perhaps, among other things, she had inherited her mother's ability to take an unknown word and seamlessly change it into something recognizable. But then the reality of their situation crashed down upon him once more. Not only was Ash only four years old, but he also had to lean over and speak practically directing into her ear in order for her to hear him. The chances were that she had merely misunderstood him rather than displayed one of her mother's more endearing quirks.

So, answering stoically, he said, "a _convertible _is a car with a removable roof." Knowing by her question that she had never ridden in one, Angel launched into his story. "When I lived here in Sunnydale, I didn't have a car. In fact, I didn't really need one. I just walked everywhere. But L.A. – Los Angeles – is much bigger, so, when I moved there, I needed a better way to move around the city.

"I tried buses first, but..."

Ash's giggling made him pause, and, for the second time that evening, Angel felt himself reluctantly grinning. Despite his knowledge of his daughter's grace and courage in the face of her own mortality and constant pain, it always amazed him to witness just how happy Ashlinn really was. Although he knew such strength of character was not a trait she received from him, he was more grateful for it than words or even his own thoughts could express.

"Mama said that buses smell like old baloney sandwiches and Uncle Xander's bathroom."

"Well, I don't eat baloney, and I wouldn't go into your Uncle Xander's bathroom if you paid me, but I suspect that your mother is right." As he blissfully wallowed in his little girl's continued amusement, Angel waited several seconds before returning to his tale. "After the buses, I tried taking cabs, but... let's just say that cabs weren't reliable enough."

To say the least. With his working hours, it had been difficult to always procure a cab, and, even when he did, most drivers would protest against the types of places he needed to go to, and they refused to wait for him to take care of business and then return. Given the size of L.A., cabs also quickly became too expensive.

"So, it became either stay close to home... which isn't the easiest thing to do in Los Angeles... or buy a car. I bought a car."

"A convertible," Ash added helpfully. He had the suspicion that she just wanted to say the word. Though he didn't know anything about children, really, and had missed most of his daughter's life, Angel already knew that, when introduced to a new word, kids enjoyed saying it as much as they possibly could... or, at least, his little girl did.

"Yes, I did, but it wasn't an instant decision; it took me a while to figure out what I wanted."

"I'm like that with ice cream," Ashlinn told him sympathetically. "There are too many good kinds to just pick one."

Neither of them mentioned that she no longer had to worry about making such a difficult decision.

"That's how it was for me when it came to buying a car," Angel confided. "Did I want a black one or a gray one? A car or a SUV? Maybe a truck? If I bought a car, did I want two doors or four? Cloth or leather interior? A sleek, new model, or an old classic?"

"How did you pick?"

"I actually don't think that I did," he confessed, making his words sound just that much more astonished and interesting than they really were. "I think my car picked me."

"Daddy, cars can't do that!"

"I don't know," he argued with her playfully. "When I saw my car for the first time – it's a Plymouth Belvedere GTX Convertible, I knew that I shouldn't buy it. It would be expensive to fix when it broke down, and it would use a lot of gas, but I wanted it anyway, and I think it wanted me, too. Even when I had my back towards it, I'd still see it – sitting there, shining in the moonlight, just waiting for me to take it for a drive. I went back and bought it the very next night and then drove it until the sun came up, too."

Briefly, Angel wondered if his daughter ever noticed that all his stories took place after the sunset, but then he remembered who her mother was and, more importantly, what her mother did, and he dismissed his worries. Innocent or not, Ashlinn was the daughter of a vampire and a vampire slayer. Simply by relation, she, too, was a creature of the night. If nothing else proved that, her sleeping schedule certainly did. Left to her own devices, allowed to rest whenever she wanted to while in the hospital, Ash mainly slept during the very early hours of the morning and napped during the height of the sun's reign in the sky.

"It was the most... freeing feeling. Because it was dark out, I didn't actually see the things that I was driving past. They were just shapes, shadows in the night, the lights shining in their windows or the moon and stars' illumination reflecting off their empty glass and sleek metal forms. The sounds of the city faded, too, became blurred and unfocused beneath the steady, constant purr of car's engine, and the fresh breeze with the top down wiped clean the otherwise cloying and choking scents of a busy, traffic filled Los Angeles."

"Did Mama ever ride in your convertible with you," his daughter wanted to know.

Despite his best intentions, Angel almost resented the question. When he told Ash stories, it was meant to be a way for them to bond and for his little girl to get to know him better, but, no matter what they were talking about, she always managed to include Buffy. While he realized such behavior was simply a natural reaction for any child – wanting to be close to both of her parents at the same time, he was also jealous. Buffy had been a part of their child's life since the very second she was conceived; he had been given, so far, less than three months with his daughter.

However, he never allowed his bitterness to shine through, and he simply answered, "no, Ashlinn. She never did."

"You should take her for a ride," she insisted, apparently not ready to drop the subject yet. "I think Mama would like your convertible, too."

Noncommittally, he responded, "we'll see," brushing the suggestion aside, hoping Ash would allow them to move on and discuss something else, preferably something Buffy free.

"Tell me another story," his daughter requested, but, before he could even think of one, she continued, "a story about you _and _Mama."

Silently sighing, Angel roughly rubbed a hand against his tired face. It was almost dawn, the sun would be up soon, and that meant that Buffy would return, and he would once more leave for the day. However, the slayer wasn't there yet, and his little girl wasn't showing signs of falling asleep anytime soon, despite her usual sleeping habits. Quickly, desperately, he flipped through the memories of his three years in Sunnydale, searching for a story about his relationship with Buffy that would be appropriate for their four year old child to hear. "Well, did you know that your mom's afraid of really big bugs?"

"Mama's not afraid of anything."

The little girl's naïve statement gave him pause, for he was perhaps the only being in the world to know just how scared Buffy could sometimes be. He knew that she feared for her friends' lives and that, by loving her, they would be put in danger that she wouldn't be able to save them from. He knew that she feared her own death, whether by actually ceasing to exist or by losing herself to the rigors and demands of her calling. He knew that, at one point, she had feared a life without him, without her mother, and, now, she was faced with the unbelievably frightening aspect of life without their daughter. The realization of just how afraid Buffy probably was made another slight splinter of his anger towards her disintegrate and float away.

Pushing aside his thoughts, though, Angel refocused upon his daughter. "Did she tell you that – that she isn't afraid of anything, because, if she did, your mother's playing a trick on you. Trust me, she definitely hates bugs." Unbidden, a warm, genuine, lasting smile spread itself across his face.

_He was lingering in that hazy, dense space of time that existed between sleep and consciousness, waiting for the final rays of the sun to say goodnight for yet another evening. Once dusk had officially fallen, he would rise, eat, and dress, all in preparation for Buffy's eventual arrival. While their relationship was still uneasy given the restraint they had to show when together, whether alone or not, they still spent most of their nights together – talking, patrolling, sometimes simply doing nothing but doing it with each other._

Before his body could completely leave behind the stupor of slumber, though, a piercing, desperate scream ripped through the mansion, waking him instantaneously, and, without thought, he reacted, running from his bed to where the sound originated from. Skidding to a halt, he was confronted with the sight of Buffy hopping from foot to foot in the courtyard garden, her fear preventing her from reacting rationally and simply fleeing into the house.

With laughter salting his words, Angel teased, "they're just cockroaches, Buffy. Granted, they're not the most attractive creatures, but you've seen worse. They won't harm you."

"They're bugs," she screeched, dashing off and hiding behind his bare back. Because he had just been asleep, he had nothing on put a pair of silk pajama pants. "Ergo, they're gross."

"Most bugs are, Buffy... which you should know. You've had to kill enough of Xander's potential girlfriends over the years." True, the teen had only been pursued by one demon bug, but Angel still enjoyed recalling the event whenever he possibly could. "Tell me a kind that you don't actually mind."

"A Volkswagen Bug," she said seriously, still cowering behind him.

He chuckled softly and went to respond to her comment, but, before he could, one of the cockroaches started scurrying closer towards him, and Buffy, still alarmed, jumped up to wrap herself around his back – her legs crossed about his waist, her arms clenched tightly about his neck. Acting as though he was put upon, Angel sighed, turned around, and went into his bedroom, slipping on a pair of shoes before returning to the garden.

Continuing with his ruse, he asked, "do you want to get down now, so I can kill them for you?" He had no intention of letting her go, though, and every intention of killing the cockroaches for her... eventually.

However, Buffy simply tightened her embrace. "I read an article once about a woman whose tongue started to swell for no reason. When the swelling didn't go down, she went to her doctor, but he couldn't figure it out either. Eventually, they cut her tongue open, and do you know what crawled out of it? A filthy, disgusting, a cut-out-my-tongue-even-if-I-never-taste-ice-cream-again-worthy cockroach. Apparently, there were roach eggs on an envelope that she licked that nicked her tongue. So, no, I will not get down."

"We're probably not going to be licking envelopes tonight, though, so I think you're safe."

"Yeah, but what if I get down, and one gets on my clothes... or one of their eggs do? You know we're going patrolling tonight, and you know how often I get cuts and scrapes. That egg could fall into an open wound, and, in a few weeks, I could have cockroaches bursting out of my skin. Nope. No way. I am not getting down. You can either carry me home like this or kill them some other way."

"You're not going anywhere," he promised her, refusing to sacrifice his alone time with his girlfriend in order to continue his teasing ruse. Without another word, he stepped forward and then stepped upon the three cockroaches visibly stirring before them on the flagstones of the courtyard. Between the cool, damp conditions of the mansion and the fountain, he was surprised it had taken so long for Buffy to see such bugs. Once the pests were all dead, he asked, "now what?"

"I'm still not getting down. If you have one cockroach, you have a thousand."

"That might be a slight exaggeration," he laughed, already turning towards his kitchen. With Buffy pressed up against his bare skin, getting dressed could wait until after he ate. "But I'll call an exterminator," he promised her. He just didn't say

how soon _he'd place such a call._

Although they couldn't do much more than hold each other and occasionally kiss, if the sight of a bug or two provided them with an excuse to be so close, he'd take advantage of pests for as long as he possibly could. Plus, it felt good to have Buffy physically need him. Oh, he knew that she depended upon him for his love and support, for his emotional and mental presence in her life, but she was more than capable of taking care of and protecting herself. In fact, she often had to take care of and protect him. So, if her fear of some cockroaches made him her protector, he'd take advantage of that, too.

"What your father is forgetting to mention, Ash, is what cockroaches look like." He had been so lost in the story that he had failed to hear Buffy enter the hospital room behind him. Or, maybe, he admitted to himself, she had been so loathed to interrupt a pleasant moment between them, even if it had only been in his memories, that she had moved as quietly as she possibly could. Being the slayer, that was quite silently. "They're big and brown, and they dart around on these tiny, little legs so quickly that they can almost move without you seeing them do so. Plus, they're known for being gross bugs – dirty ones that only like to live in wet, equally dirty places."

"Not that my house was dirty," Angel spoke up, for some reason feeling the need to defend himself. He definitely didn't want his daughter to think that he was a pig... even if he did consume the creatures' blood, another thing he didn't want Ash to know about. "It was just..."

"... like an old castle," his little girl finished for him. "Mama showed me it."

That made him fall silent once more.

"You could stay, you know," Buffy said, catching him off guard for the second time in as many minutes. "Even though I'm here now, you don't have to leave."

"Yeah, Daddy, stay," Ashlinn begged him, her dull monotone voice sounding more animated than he had heard it in weeks. "Tell me more stories about you and Mama."

"Alright," he agreed somewhat reluctantly but also eagerly at the same time. "I'll stay."

Meeting Buffy's gaze, he wordlessly told her what his decision meant – that things weren't fixed or forgiven between them, but he wanted to spend as much time with their daughter as he possibly could, that he appreciated her offer to allow him to share her time with Ash, and that he would do anything within his power to make their little girl happy... even at the cost of his own comfort and pride. It wasn't a perfect, fuzzy family moment, and there certainly wasn't a sudden bridge built between them, but Angel wondered if perhaps the bridge's first piling had been put in position that morning, and, if so, he was thankful towards Buffy for taking that first step. It was a start.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Come Back to Erin**

_One Month Later..._

_Buffy didn't snore in sleep, or whimper, or speak; she sighed, her contentment audible._

_He remembered the night he had first slept by her side years before. Even then, when she was a mere dream to him – someone far too special to ever be burdened by who he was and what he felt for her, the peace her presence afforded him was fragile. Though he had rested by her side, he had refused himself the solace of deep sleep, preferring to be aware of her instead – her breathing, her sporadic movements, her essence that permeated the very air around her._

_Now, though, he was beautifully flawed, his humanity a cloak of potential and vulnerability wrapped precariously around her slumbering form, and, still, he did not completely let go in sleep. He had the rest of his natural life to share a bed with the woman he loved, to saver her nearness, and he intended to take advantage of every single second, and, in a way, his awareness of Buffy was far more restorative to his body, mind, and soul than any conscious obliterating slumber._

_Balancing on the very fine edge of somnolence, Angel allowed his physical form to see for him, his eyes closed and weakened anyway by the dimness of his room. Buffy was curled up beside him – her hands clenched under her chin, her arms shielding her defenseless heart, her legs bent and tucked so that she appeared to be curled up in a tiny, compact ball. His own, much larger body was wrapped around her, the cocoon to her caterpillar, sheltering her until the morning when she would stretch and blossom into a shattering brilliance, far brighter and more precious than even the most rare butterfly._

_And she was his._

_His to love. His to worship. His to cherish and protect, honor and keep safe. His to spend the rest of his life with. His to marry. His to have children with. His to grow old with. His to die and be buried with, side by side for all of eternity._

_That was perhaps the sweetest reward of his sudden and shockingly received humanity – the chance to spend the forever with Buffy that they had promised each other years before in a cemetery in Sunnydale. For his part, he had meant that he would love her forever in his memory, keeping her alive inside his soul long after she had physically passed on from the mortal plane. But, now, he didn't have to love alone; they would someday pass on together, moving forward through death to whatever came next in life._

_Even in the leisure of his shallow sleep, Angel felt his thoughts send a rush of warmth and longing through his body, and he responded to the contentment by holding Buffy just that much closer. Through his haze of rest, he became cognizant of the small things about the woman in his arms that made him cherish her. So lost in her dreams, Buffy slept with her mouth slightly open, the tickle of her drool upon his arm cradled beneath her head cleansed him of all sins. Her feet, petite ice cubes slipped between the heat of his calves, stole away the warmth of his now living heart and allowed him to share his vitality and spirit with her just as she had once shared her essence with him. And he relished in her softly prickled legs – the physical proof that, for the first time in their relationship, he had been able to spend both the day and the night with her rather than Buffy coming to him after the sun set, freshly showered and legs shaved in preparation of his company. Just as she had whispered to him earlier that she felt like a normal girl falling asleep in the arms of her normal boyfriend, holding her as they both slept made him feel like a real man for the first time. Ever._

"Hey, Angel. Are you alright?"

Her dainty hand was on his arm. Obviously, she had been shaking him slightly, arousing him from his stupor. As he blinked fully back into consciousness, the bubble of his memory disappearing without even a pop of warning, Angel realized that he had been absent, at least mentally, from the conversation for quite some time. While Doctor Welby was looking at him curiously, Buffy had a knowing, sympathetic expression upon her otherwise grief lined face. Without even asking, she knew where or, more precisely, _when _he had been in his mind. Maybe she had been there, too.

"Yes, sorry," he apologized rapidly, shifting in his seat to completely face his daughter's physician. "Please, continue."

"As I was saying, seeing as how tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I will not actually be on duty. However, if you need to reach me..."

Without actually meaning to, Angel found himself ignoring the doctor once more. It wasn't because he didn't care about what she was saying; he did, for it concerned his daughter, but he also knew that, if they needed her, all they had to do was have her paged, and Doctor Welby would come running. But, even then, there really wasn't anything the doctor could do for Ash anyway. The little girl's paralysis had spread. She was now incapable of moving anything but her head on her own and couldn't swallow, resulting in both a feeding tube and the constant necessity of machines to breathe for her. It was an almost certainty that he would lose his only child within a matter of days... if not hours. Her body would either stop fighting and she would go into a coma, or she would die.

However, selfishly or perhaps it was simply instinctively, his mind wasn't on the impending loss of his daughter but focused instead upon the day that she was made, on the day that never was, the day that he had caused Buffy to lose. It had been five years exactly since he had spent a glorious near twenty-four hours as nothing more than just a man. Since the moment he had stepped foot again in Sunnydale and learned of his daughter's existence and then of her fatal disease, time had become even more irrelevant for him. He was only aware of it due to its ever mocking presence but tried with all his might to forget, to lose himself in the simple joy of getting to know his only child, but, when he had opened his eyes that evening, waking with the dawn of the night, he had instantly been cognizant of the date and of its significance, and, despite his best intentions, he felt as though it was an omen. The five year anniversary of such a monumental event in his and Buffy's life could not simply go unnoticed or ignored.

"... won't be celebrating. We'll be here," he heard Buffy tell Doctor Welby and knew, without asking as he returned to the conversation once more, that she was referring to both herself and him. "Thanksgiving is the day when you're supposed to share what you're most thankful for, but our daughter is dying. I don't feel very much like celebrating, and I know that Angel feels the same way. Besides, it wouldn't be right for us to go to some big, elaborate dinner... since Ash can't."

"I see," the physician stated awkwardly. Though he knew that Buffy had not intended to make the doctor feel guilty with her words, she had done so nonetheless, but he didn't have the patience or even the ability to disabuse her of such a notion. "Well, then..."

Standing, he interrupted, "if there's nothing else you need to discuss with us, we'd like to go back to Ashlinn's room."

"Of course," Doctor Welby agreed. She and Buffy stood together at the same time, though the doctor did not move further than that.

Allowing Buffy to precede him, Angel waited for her to leave the office before following, and they moved silently yet purposefully through the hospital hallways, intent upon their destination. He knew that they would talk before the day... or, rather, the night was over. In the wake of his memory, there were things he wanted to tell Buffy and things that he wanted to know from her. He wanted to find out just how much about the day that never was that she remembered and then fill in all the empty, blank spaces of her recollections, and, appropriate or not, he wanted Ash to hear about the day that she was conceived as well. After all, no matter what existed between himself and Buffy now, there had once been love, and he felt as though their child deserved to know that she was conceived because of something beautiful and pure, something so perfect and right it hadn't been a mistake no matter if the rest of the world was unaware of the miracle.

When they entered the corridor, though, that would take them to their daughter's room, all thoughts of conversation fled his mind in light of the chaos that they were surrounded by. The code blue alarm was blaring, and every single available nurse and doctor was running frantically back and forth, in and out of his little girl's hospital room. Dimly, Angel was aware of the crowd of people forlornly standing by and watching from the small ICU waiting room as he and Buffy sprinted towards their daughter. Giles and Willow, Xander, Cordelia and Wesley, even Spike were gathered into one single body of potent, black mourning. They, too, apparently, knew that it was the end and had joined together without invitation to mark the passage and to grieve for their own loss.

He didn't care.

The swarm of medical professionals parted like a retractor spreading through the air between them, allowing both he and Buffy to pass soundlessly towards their dying daughter. Within just a second of allowing them entrance, though, they moved to go back to work, but a shaky, stilling hand held up by Buffy stopped them once more. He waited with them, breath abated, to hear what she had to say.

"Thank you," she choked out, barely managing to speak over the tidal waves of emotion surging through her and up into her throat where it seemed to get stuck. "For all these months, you've done... so much for my... for our little girl, but it's over now. There's nothing that you can do." Glancing at him, Buffy met his gaze, and he nodded once – simply, giving her the silent agreement she so desperately sought from him. "We know that it's the end, so, if you'll please just..."

Finishing for her, Angel whispered, "we'd like to be alone with our daughter."

Wordlessly but sympathetically, everyone left but one nurse who stayed just long enough to turn off all of Ash's machines and to remove the various tubes and wires from her fragile, fading form. Buffy didn't wait for her exit, though, before she allowed her tears to fall, and they both moved to their daughter's bedside immediately, each reaching out and touching her in reassurance. While he held his little girl's free hand, Buffy caressed her pale, slightly blue tinged face, the ghost touch of her fingers mimicking the falling pattern and rhythm of her own tears.

Once they were alone, Buffy nearly folded under the pressure of her misery, but, using his preternatural speed, he rushed to her side, enfolding her in his arms before she could crumble completely. Feeling the need to say something, he searched his mind for comforting words, but they didn't come easily. After all, it was past the point of hope, and neither of them wanted to hear empty, pointless platitudes. Eventually, though, he fell back upon what they had been using for months to sooth their daughter: stories.

"Pick her up," Angel instructed, moving himself so that he could slip into the hospital bed and take his daughter's former place. Once he was settled, without invitation or instruction, Buffy, with Ashlinn cradled against her chest, climbed into the bed with him, mimicking their daughter's position against his own still heart. Settled and comfortable, he waited several beats, merging his own unnecessary breath to mirror his little girl's own rapidly fading exhalations.

"There were many things that I didn't appreciate about life while growing up, but even when I was at my most selfish and destructive, I could always appreciate the beauty of my home, of Ireland, and, because you're my daughter," he told Ash, aware of the fact that his only child was unconscious and not actually listening, the words meant more for Buffy than even himself, "it's your home, too.

"Long, long ago, Irish folklore speaks of a people called the Tuatha De Danann. Some believe them to be the island's indigenous people from before the Celt's arrival. Some hold them to be gods and goddesses. While still others call them the faery. No matter what one believes about the Tuatha De Dannann, all know that Ireland gets her name from a queen of the magical race. Her name was Eire... or Erin.

"Close your eyes and imagine every single shade of green you've ever seen before – the pale, dusty green of a newborn leaf's underside, practically silver when the sunlight pierces it just right; the bright, happy green of fresh mowed grass, so virulent that you smell its very life; the near black, inky green of a wet pine tree, heavy with vitality. All those hues and more, that's Ireland with bursts of white, pink, and blue – houses and beds of flowers that dot the countryside, lakes that mirror the endless sky and fluffy clouds from above.

"Never, in all my years, in all my travels, in all my dreams have I seen a more lovely place than Ireland, and, when I think of you in heaven, Ash, I think of you there." Unconsciously, as he spoke, Angel lapsed back into the lilt of his long forgotten brogue, its haunting, shallow notes more soothing than his learned, clipped American accent, and, while he knew that his daughter's life had long since faded and extinguished, he murmured on, hoping that his words both carried his daughter safely through her passing and carried to Buffy even the slightest bit of comfort and peace. In the light of their loss, his anger and hurt no longer mattered.

"'Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen; Come back, Aroon, to the land of my birth; Come with the shamrocks and Spring-time, Mavourneen; And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.'"


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Waltz #2**

Cemeteries were not unfriendly places. They were quiet and peaceful without being lonely; the whispers of the slowly dancing trees above and the gentle embrace of the grass below one's feet fulfilling the needs of companionship. And then, of course, there was the always present acquaintance of one's memories. Past conversations floated upon the breeze, smiles long forgotten were remembered when the light of the moon reflected against the cool stone of the granite grave markers, and the wind itself was an embrace, a hug of compassion in an otherwise alienating world.

And that was if one was alone in a cemetery.

Angel wasn't, though. Despite the fact that he and Buffy had refused to hold a large, impersonal service for their daughter, electing only to surround themselves with friends and family who understood their loss even if they couldn't actually fully appreciate it themselves, he still felt crowded and claustrophobic attending the midnight service. He and Buffy stood side by side but not touching at the foot of their little girl's grave. Willow, Cordelia, and Xander sat huddled together in the grass to their right; Giles and Wesley, stiff and proper in their grief, remained standing, yards apart physically while mentally walking the same path, separated by no more than their emotional reservations; and Spike was lounged in a studied posture of carelessness against a nearby tree, his long, leather duster flapping in the wind, an ever-present cigarette perched unlit against his pale, thin lips. He looked confused and distracted despite his best attempts to appear otherwise.

No one spoke; no one moved. It was a somber, empty affair, and Angel felt as though he was disappointing or, at least, letting down his daughter's memory. At the same time, though, he knew that neither he nor Buffy would have been able to survive a grand, lavish funeral affair. For one, the neighbors and strangers alike would have flocked to such an event, at night or not, putting upon airs of misery and condolence when they knew nothing of the people his little girl left behind and even less about Ash herself. And then there was also the question of how they were supposed to have a proper burial service without some form of a proper religious figure to officiate it.

He had been born and raised Catholic but had left his religion long behind, despite occasionally posing as a priest to lure his victims to their death. Willow was Jewish and Wiccan, Cordelia worshipped nothing more sacred than fashion trends and Hollywood celebrities, and Xander's religious roots stretched no deeper than the Charlie Brown Christmas Special every year. While Angel knew that Giles and Wesley both had respect for some sort of higher power – one could not be a watcher, see the things watchers saw, and not believe in something all knowing and powerful, neither of the two men were especially devout.

As for Buffy, he knew that she wasn't too keen towards anything resembling a god. In her eyes, if such a person, thing, or group saw fit to make her the slayer, kill her once only to return her to hell on earth, deprive her of her mother when she needed her most, and then take away her child from her then such a person, thing, or group could go to hell. Oh, she'd keep on fighting their battles for them if for no other reason than to try and protect those still left behind that hadn't been taken from her yet, but she wouldn't do it graciously and certainly not reverently.

Plus, there was Spike, and Angel was pretty sure that he was an atheist. Put all of their various levels of irreligious attitudes and beliefs together, and the outcome had been a private, personal memorial service.

Perhaps he should have prepared something to say. After all, it was his daughter that they were putting in the ground that night, burying her next to the grandmother she'd only know in death. He should have composed something to express just how much he loved her, how much he was thankful for her presence in his life... no matter how short said presence had been, how much he would miss her, but Angel also felt as though he had said those things already days before in Ash's hospital room as he held Buffy in his arms and Buffy held their daughter as she took her final and last breath.

So, he was torn. While a part of Angel wanted his little girl's passing to be marked properly somehow, he was also hesitant to do it himself. Buffy couldn't. She was silent and dead inside; the only sign that she was was aware of their presence in the graveyard and what such a presence meant was the steady flow of tears that dripped down her pale, cold cheeks. Giles, Wesley, and Willow were all intelligent and well-spoken, eloquent in their poise and knowledge. He wouldn't have protested against any of them stepping forward to say a few words, but he wouldn't ask them to either.

Finally, when someone did clear their throat and shuffle upright into a respectable stance, Angel was surprised to see Spike take several steps forward before thrusting his hands into his pocket and glowering at the mound of fresh, damp earth before them. For a moment, he had to fight the urge to leap across his daughter's grave and strike the other vampire down. Of all those present, in Angel's mind, Spike had the least right to speak about Ashlinn, but then he recalled Spike's penchant for expressing things no one else could ever quite find the words to say. Chip or no chip, soul or no soul, he had always been emotionally astute and unafraid to say exactly what was on everyone's minds, including his own.

Tumbled from a cloud  
rolled over and over  
and out of its nest,  
floats to the earth,  
in so much dark yet  
illuminous.

Landed in a tree,  
top of a hill,  
in colorful dreams  
of soaring,  
slept into the morning,  
until something broke the chill.

Snowflake, special  
different from the rest,  
and when you love what you're doing  
that's when you'll do your best,  
with God's help we can pass any test.

With just enough light to see,  
it listens to a distant sound,  
and caught a glimpse of the ocean  
before the sun helped it to the ground.

Now a drop, it stumbled  
into a swift moving stream  
like a toboggan, flume, roller coaster,  
such an ultimate adventure,  
one wild and crazy, screaming stream.

Snowflake, special  
different from all the rest  
and when you love what you're doing  
that's when you'll do your best,  
then let God take care of the rest.

It slowly flows into a river,  
wide, slow, bold and free,  
heard so much about the ocean,  
learned so much, met so many,  
there's so much love in the sea.

He should have known.

Of course, Spike would turn to poetry for comfort, for a means of expressing what he and everyone else felt. Angel was just surprised that he himself had not done the same thing. Reassured, though, by Spike's words, he relaxed and felt Buffy do the same next to him in response to his own relief, both of them lulled into a temporary sense of calm.

Before Spike could begin his next poem, though, Angel heard Wesley and Giles whispering together beside him. "You don't think that was one of his own pieces, do you," the younger watcher asked of his older counterpart.

"No," Giles answered definitely. "It wasn't rubbish, was it?"

Despite their muted tones, their voices carried in the quiet currents of the night, and Willow, Cordelia, and Xander all snickered to various degrees from their parked positions upon the grass; Spike glared, his eyes promising eventual retribution while the rest of his face remained respectfully remorseful. A beat went by, and then Spike was reciting poetry once more.

While you were sleeping,  
I sat by your bed.  
I watched you  
as you smiled through your dreams.

I traced your perfect shell ear,  
touched every curl  
on your little head.

I tried to sleep,  
but the sound of your breathing  
drew me back to your room.

I couldn't resist  
the magic which tugged  
at my heartstrings  
and brought me to your side.

I settled on the floor  
once again,  
back against the wall,  
holding your tiny hand in mine.

While you were sleeping,  
I fell in love with you all over again.

Knowing they wouldn't be leaving any time soon and suddenly needing to sit down, Spike's recited words striking a little too close to home for Angel, he reached for Buffy's hand and lowered them both bonelessly to the ground. Once they were seated, he did not let go of her, her tiny palm and fingers cradled protectively against his own. Spike waited for them to be settled before he continued.

In such a night, when every louder wind  
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;  
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,  
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;  
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,  
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:  
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,  
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;  
When in some river, overhung with green,  
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;  
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,  
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,  
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,  
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;  
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,  
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes  
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,  
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;  
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,  
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:  
When odors, which declined repelling day,  
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;  
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,  
And falling waters we distinctly hear;  
When through the gloom more venerable shows  
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,  
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,  
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:  
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,  
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,  
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,  
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:  
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,  
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;  
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,  
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;  
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,  
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;  
When a sedate content the spirit feels,  
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;  
But silent musings urge the mind to seek  
Something, too high for syllables to speak;  
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,  
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,  
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,  
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:  
In such a night let me abroad remain,  
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;  
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,  
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

He was thankful that Spike wasn't depending upon trite sentiments expressed in poems known to one and all. Angel wasn't sure if he'd be able to listen to anyone speak about the tragedy of his daughter's short life, about how her death was unjustified and unfair, and he certainly did not want to hear anyone say that she was now in a better place. Yes, such sentiments were meant to sooth and reassure parents, and maybe they would do just that someday in the future, but, for now, the wound of losing Ash was still too raw and tender.

When we two parted  
In silence and tears,  
Half broken-hearted  
To sever for years,  
Pale grew they cheek and cold,  
Colder they kiss;  
Truly that hour foretold  
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning  
Sunk chill on my brow—  
It felt like the warning  
Of what I feel now.  
Thy vows are all broken,  
And light is thy fame:  
I hear thy name spoken,  
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,  
A knell to mine ear;  
A shudder comes o'er me—  
Why wert though so dear?  
They know not I knew thee,  
Who Knew thee too well:  
Long, long shall I rue thee,  
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—  
In silence I grieve,  
That thy heart could forget,  
Thy spirit deceive.  
If I should meet thee  
After long years,  
How should I greet thee?  
With silence and tears.

Spike's recital did not take long. As if to mirror the painfully short length of Ashlinn's life, Spike kept his thoughts minimal yet reflective. He spoke of both Ash's life and of her passing, but, thankfully, he did not reference those that she left behind, another thing that Angel was grateful for.

As he observed his sometimes rival, his sometimes confidant, and the always pain in his ass across from him, Angel knew that Spike was drawing to a close. He stood up just that much straighter, removed his hands from his pockets, tilted his chin back in that classic, egotistical sneer of his, and raised the volume of his voice just a slight degree to emphasize his final words.

I held a jewel in my fingers  
And went to sleep  
The day was warm,  
and winds were prosy.  
I said, "Twill keep." I woke -  
and chide my honest fingers,  
The Gem was gone  
And now,  
an Amethyst remembrance  
Is all I own

Once Spike fell silent, several moments passed before anyone stirred. Finally, it was the bleached blonde himself who broke the stillness. "I bloody well think that I need a drink."

Cordelia stood and moved to Spike's side. Somberly, she stated, "I don't think your cheap booze is going to cut it this time."

"Hey, I resent that," Spike protested half-heartedly. Shrugging, though, he turned to his right where Wesley stood. "Care to lend a bloke a twenty, Watcher-Junior?"

Before Wesley could reply, Cordelia lifted a hand and pulled Spike away with her from the graveside. As they walked away, Angel found himself listening along with everyone else, appreciating the slight distraction. "Whiskey and scotch aren't going to be distracting enough this time, Spike."

"Well, I don't drink anything else... well, other than blood. Though I don't doubt that your nectar is sweet, Seer, I won't bite you... for food."

"Then bite me for something else," Cordelia invited as they faded from sight and Spike's response was obscured by closer conversation and further distance between them.

"Did I just hear what I think I heard," Xander asked incredulously, turning to face and addressing his question to Willow. "Did Queen C just..."

"Agree to get groiny, as she herself would say, with William the Bloody? You can bet your bottom dollar," Willow interrupted to answer him. Standing, she held a hand out to the still flabbergasted Xander at her feet. "Come on," she urged, pulling him up alongside her. "We'll take a walk back to the house, and I'll explain to you something called 'the birds and the bees' and how grief is like Viagra to the wee little buggers."

He didn't begrudge Spike and Cordelia's need to drown their sorrow in sex, and he was thankful that, despite their sadness, Willow and Xander could still smile and laugh. They would all need the comfort of another's body and the distraction of humor to get through and past their loss. More importantly, Buffy needed her friends to be themselves, colored by mourning but unchanged. So, when Wesley, perhaps for the first time showing truly just how compassionate and intelligent he actually was, turned to Giles and bluntly, unexpectedly said, "Sean Connery _is _James Bond," Angel both appreciated his friend's attempt to divert Giles away from his sorrow and recognized the blatant challenge for what it really was: an invitation to dive into a shallowly insignificant debate in order to temporarily befuddle the older watcher out of his lamenting stupor.

"Are you daft, man," Giles challenge... just as Angel knew Wesley had hoped he would. "Or have you managed to never see a single Bond film starring Roger Moore?"

"I happen to have the entire collection back at the hotel in Los Angeles."

"Then I suggest we go there now to watch them," Giles said immediately in response, "in order for you to see the error of your ways."

Angel was also grateful towards Wesley for concocting a reason to finally leave he and Buffy alone with their daughter. With everyone else gone, they were able to simply be with the little girl... or whatever was left of her in their minds, hearts, and spirits.

Somewhat bashfully, Angel reached into his coat pocket to retrieve the necklace he had been carrying around for weeks. Dangling it in front of Buffy, he explained, "it's just like the locket that I gave Ash for her birthday... but slightly larger." She grasped it, took it from his hand, and opened it despite the fact that the dark of the night would prevent her from actually seeing the drawings inside. "The one on the left is of you holding Ash when she was a baby, and the one on the right is of Ash before the disease really started to... take her from us. Willow gave me some pictures, and these were my favorite, but, if you don't like them, or if you want something else, just let me know, and I'll..."

"They're," Buffy had to pause to clear her emotion clenched throat. "They're perfect."

"Good, I'm glad," he told her somewhat ineptly, but, if she noticed his nervous manner, she didn't draw attention to or mention it.

"Would you be willing to draw something else, though, for me," Buffy surprised him by asking, turning slightly so that she could meet his gaze. With one of her hands still clasped in his and her other wrapped around the locket, she didn't protest when he placed his own free hand softly around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

"Anything."

"I want something of all three of us together," she said, her tone faint in its hesitance. "I know we don't have any pictures of us together... as a family, but I could tell you what you look like, remind you, or maybe Wesley or Giles would instead. Whatever you want. Anyway, I want it to be something like a family portrait, something that I can hang on the wall. But not yet," she added hastily. "I'm not ready, and I'm sure you're not either, but, when you are...?"

"When we're ready," he agreed, leaning forward to press a kiss against her forehead. The gesture surprised him. Since the night when Ash had died in their arms at the hospital, they hadn't spoken or been so close to one another, but the embrace just seemed natural, and he didn't question the gentle, passing expression of affection. Instead, when he pulled away, he simply settled back into his former position, Buffy still held carefully yet tightly against him.

They'd spend the night there, sitting by their daughter's grave, and, just before the sun came up, they'd leave.

At least their bodies would.

_*** "Snowflake" by Paul Hoekman, "While You Were Sleeping" by Tara Simms, "A Nocturnal Revelry" by Anne Finch, "When We Two Are Parted" by Lord Byron, "I Held a Jewel" by Emily Dickinson_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Following this post, there is only one more chapter remaining._

_~Charlynn~**  
**_

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lie in the Sound**

_One Month Later, Christmas Eve_

While Spike, Cordelia, and Wesley had returned to Los Angeles and their business there, he had remained in Sunnydale. Realistically, there was no reason for him to be there. His presence wasn't required to fight some new big-bad, and, by staying, he was ignoring his agency and deserting the people who sought out his services for help. Emotionally, though, Angel wasn't sure when he'd be able to leave the Hellmouth. More than ever, the little Southern California hamlet felt like home.

That in itself didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. A home should be more than just a one room apartment underneath an abandoned warehouse; a home should have included a life – friends, family, a job, some social interaction required. However, Angel limited his time out in the world to blood runs and vampire patrols, and, every night, he visited his daughter's grave.

It wasn't so much the fact that Ash was buried in Sunnydale which kept him in town. Rather, it was the fact that his daughter had spent her entire life in the small city. She played on the swings in the park. Her clothes and shoes came from the kids' stores at the mall. She went trick-or-treating along Sunnydale's tree lined streets. And then there was Buffy, too.

He had left her once, and, in doing so, nearly killed both their spirits. Because of his decisions to spare her from a life with something dead and unnatural, he had left her alone to mourn the loss of her mother, to raise their child, and then to deal with their daughter's fatal disease. Granted, she could have called him at any time to ask for his help or just to see him, and he would have come running, but he was starting to see why Buffy had never done such a thing.

No matter what he felt and no matter that his intentions were good, he had still left her. In fact, he had dumped her in a sewer directly before her senior prom. Her life had already been in an upheaval as she dealt with Faith's betrayal, the Mayor's devious machinations, graduating from high school, and attempting to make plans for the future when she wasn't even sure if she would survive the next night. On top of everything else, he broke up with her. It wouldn't have mattered how many times he said that he loved her despite his leaving, he now knew that, to Buffy, it had felt like being abandoned. Before that night in the sewers, she had already possessed issues with abandonment and feeling unwanted thanks to her father's lack of concern and desertion. It was only natural that she would then feel the same way when he left her, too. Add to that her eventual knowledge through her dreams that he had, in her eyes, thrown away his humanity and a chance to be with her, and Angel wasn't surprised that Buffy had refused to communicate with him for so many years.

So, although he still harbored a small amount of animosity towards Buffy, the majority of his still heart was filled with regret, and he knew that to leave her again now would only make things worse between them. More so than ever before, they needed to be there for one another, to support each other through the loss of their daughter. Whether or not they'd be any more to each other than former lovers and former co-parents, he wasn't sure. He did know, though, that he couldn't focus on such thoughts and questions. While he might still love Buffy and always would, she obviously was in no place to hear such declarations.

Despite the fact that he had remained in Sunnydale, they had not seen each other since Ash's unconventional burial service almost a month before. In fact, Angel wasn't even sure if Buffy was aware of his presence still in her town. Although he patrolled nightly, staking vampires new and old_er_when he saw them, their paths had never crossed. She was still slaying. That much he knew for sure, because, if she wasn't, the town would have been buzzing with the news, and the streets would have been even more dangerous than they already were. So, he knew that one aspect of her life had returned to... or, more accurately, had remained normal, but he wanted to know so much more.

He wanted to know if she had gone back to work, and, if so, was it helping? Did having something to do day in and day out actually work as a distraction, or did going to work for Buffy just mean going back home afterwards to be reminded all over again that she wasn't returning to her daughter? Angel wanted to know what she had done with all of Ashlinn's things and if she needed help with their little girl's medical bills. More importantly, he needed to know if she had heard from her father, if she, too, went to Ash's grave every night, and if there was someone there to hold her when she cried. However, he wouldn't foist his own concerns upon Buffy until she was ready, partly because he knew that his worry for her was just a distraction from his own unquenchable grief.

The fact was that, even though he hadn't left town, Buffy had yet to come to him. After they spent the evening in the graveyard together following the burial of their daughter a month prior, he had walked her home, squeezed her hand under the soft glow of the front porch light, and told her that, when she needed him, call and he'd be there. Whether Buffy was aware that he was still in Sunnydale or not, she hadn't called yet.

So, Angel mourned in private, he patrolled, and, a week after Ash's death, he had started to draw again. He found sketching both his daughter and the mother of his child therapeutic. It was as though he could give them life through his charcoal – creating situations and memories that he could share with him. He would close his eyes and imagine dozens upon dozens of things he wished there had been time for them to experience together as a family, and then he would pick up his pencil and, with his eyes still closed, draw. There were stacks of completed sketches strewn across his small apartment – sketches of Buffy and Ash jumping in mud puddles, of Buffy teaching their daughter some of those ridiculous dances she tried to show him back when they were still dating, of Buffy giving Ash a bath.

And there were several sketches that Angel had already had framed, and those pieces were propped up against an empty wall, waiting for a home. His favorite was of a very heavily pregnant Buffy. Despite being unable to feel the nuances of temperature himself, Angel knew that Southern California, especially in the summer, was hot. Perhaps it was just his attraction to her, but Buffy already always felt as though she burned a few degrees warmer than everyone else. Add on top of that the burden of heat produced by a third trimester pregnancy, and he had sketched her almost gloriously nude.

Although he had never seen Buffy pregnant nor any pictures of her so, Angel knew instinctively what she would have looked like carrying his child, and he expressed that, experienced it the only way he possibly could – through his artwork. In the sketch he treasured so much, he had her wearing nothing more than a tiny pair of boxers, her upper body bare. Reclined upon his former couch in L.A., she was half asleep in the picture, drowsing peacefully as she read from a maternity book and softly, rhythmically caressed the taunt mound of their unborn baby. The sight was something he could gaze upon for hours and sometimes did, and, no matter how many times he looked at the sketch, it still remained novel and just as miraculous as it had the first time he had seen it after its completion.

Along with his own personal sketches, he had also slowly been working on the portrait Buffy had requested of him. Not only had he taken his time with the drawing because he wanted it to be perfect for her, but, as she had seemed to sense, sketching himself had not been easy. However, after several weeks, he was satisfied with the print he held in his hands and felt that it was ready to be delivered. Just in time, too. Even though he wasn't actually celebrating Christmas that year, he still felt the need to give Buffy a present if for no other reason than to show her that he cared and that he was thinking about her.

So, that's why he found himself out so early that evening. Usually, he waited until at least midnight before he left his apartment to patrol and then to visit Ash, but he wasn't sure what Buffy would have planned for the holiday, and he wanted to make sure he saw her before things for her became to hectic. Although their moods would no doubt be somber, Angel was also sure that Giles, Willow, and Xander would not allow the holiday to pass without proper recognition if for no other reason than to project the idea that life must indeed go on for Buffy's sake.

Sure enough, as he approached the house, his suspicions were confirmed. Though tasteful and understated, the place was decorated for the holiday. He recognized Willow's touch in the wreath hanging upon the front door and the candles placed in every window, and, despite himself, Angel felt a grin tug at the corners of his lips. Jewish or not, Willow knew and understood Christmas. Walking up onto the front porch, the distinctive scent of baking cookies wafted from the closed up house, Giles' touch he thought, and he could hear the irksome sound of high-pitched carols being sung. Such terrible music had to be Xander's influence, he mused, lifting a hand to knock just twice upon the door. It took several moments, but he wasn't in a hurry, and eventually the door was opened.

"Merry Christmas, Giles," Angel greeted before the older man could say a word. "Is Buffy at home?"

Flustered – obviously Giles had not been expecting him, the watcher stumbled through his response. "Oh, yes, of course. Um, no, actually. She's not."

"Do you know when she'll be back?" Although the last thing he wanted to do was sit amongst so much forced gaiety, he would wait for her if Giles was expecting her return soon.

"No, I'm afraid she didn't say."

"Well, do you at least know where she was going," Angel pressed. If Giles did know the location of Buffy's errand, then he would be able to gauge approximately how long she would be gone. Though they had been virtual strangers in each other's lives for the past four years, he still felt as though he knew her better than he knew himself sometimes.

"Yes," Giles answered, still sounding somewhat distracted. Briefly, Angel wondered if he had been indulging in more than just baked goods. Perhaps egg nog – and a strong batch at that – had been on the menu. "Oh, I'm sorry," the older man moved aside, opening the door wider. "Do come in," he invited. "It's rather brisk this evening, and that," he motioned towards the frame Angel was holding, "does look quite heavy."

Noticing a prompt when he heard one, Angel turned the portrait over so that Giles could see the sketch, but he did not enter the house. "It's for Buffy. She asked that I... It's finished, so I wanted to give it to her. For Christmas."

"Oh my. This is... rather extraordinary. Of course, I knew that you drew... from reading the watchers' diaries and all, but I never..." Giles words trailed off, and, in lieu of knowing what to say, he removed his glasses and started to polish the lenses.

For several moments as he cleaned, he gazed unblinkingly upon the drawing. It was extremely lifelike in its fluidity. Often, sketches were unable to catch the full spectrum of a body's movements even if the subject was standing still. But not the portrait he currently held. In it, he had staged the three of them as though they were having their picture taken. The background was muted and empty so that an observer's eyes were drawn to the people in the drawing and nothing else. Buffy was holding a toddler aged Ash, both of them looking directly towards an unseen audience, while his own face was somewhat obscured as it focused solely upon them, his arms wrapped around Buffy.

After allowing several still moments to pass by, Angel broke the silence. "Giles," he tentatively said. "About Buffy...?"

"Of course," the older man responded immediately, shaking his head to rid himself of any other thoughts. Looking up at Angel, Giles responded, "she said that she was going for a walk, that she wanted to go back and see some special place. I'm not quite sure what place she was talking about, but you should know. Buffy said that the two of you spent a Christmas morning there together once."

"Son of a...!" Shoving the portrait into the unsuspecting watcher's hands, Angel fled from the house as quickly as his legs would carry him. He was off and running – gone – before Giles could even attempt to ask him what was wrong. As he sprinted towards the mansion, towards the hill behind it where he himself had gone all those years before to greet the sun and die, he cursed himself for walking and not taking his car to Buffy's. The trip would have taken mere minutes if he was able to drive it, but, instead, time ticked rapidly by, keeping his pace where his undead heart couldn't.

Finally, he arrived. He saw her at once, poised upon the steep hill's ledge, looking out over a thankless city – a thankless world – that survived solely because of her. He stilled, slowing his frantic pace to a casual, reassuring stroll. As he approached her, he noticed the tense set of her poised muscles and the knife shaking dangerously against her throat. Momentarily, Angel was startled by how white her skin was. Whereas he was used to her looking so golden and healthy, her body glowed under the light of the moon. She looked as pale as death; she looked as pale as a vampire.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I think I'm doing," she questioned him. He could hear the antagonistic note to her voice loud and clear. It screamed for him to stay away, to leave her alone, to not touch her, to not care.

"No, I think you've made your intentions quite clear. I am kind of curious about one thing, though. Why the overkill?"

Caught off guard by his flippant question, she replied ungainly, "huh?"

"Jumping and the cutting your own throat?"

Immediately defensive, she said, "I want to make sure that it sticks this time. You know, I do have a habit of dying and then coming back to life."

"Once does not a habit make, Buffy," he told her somberly.

"Look, I don't need some lecture about the proper methods of experimentation and control groups, okay?"

"No, I'm sure Willow's already covered that for you... several times."

Frustrated, she pivoted to face him, the hand with the knife dropping – at least momentarily – from her throat, and blurted out, "what the hell do you want, Angel? I'm trying to kill myself here, and you're making small talk. Either cut to the chase and try to talk me out of it – which, I have to tell, will be pointless, because I'm not going to change my mind – or leave. I don't have time for these... games."

Instead of responding to her remarks, he changed the subject. "I stopped by your house earlier. That's how I found out that you were up here. I wanted to drop off that portrait I promised you – the one of you, me, and Ash. Giles was baking, and I could tell that Willow had been decorating. She's probably working on your guys' Christmas tree as we speak. And there was this really annoying music playing – grating."

"Chipmunks," she whispered.

"What?"

"That would have been The Chipmunks singing," Buffy answered him.

"Chipmunks can't sing."

"Angel," she yelled, evidently realizing that he had been attempting to – and briefly succeeding in – distracting her. Still, though, she was unable to allow his comment to rest. "And vampires aren't real, right?"

The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to the things in her life that were unjust or that made her unhappy, so he steered away from her response. "Don't you want to see the portrait? I think... I hope that you'll be happy with it."

"I'm sure it's wonderful, Angel, but, if you would just leave me alone for a few minutes, I'll soon get to see our daughter again – alive instead of just in a picture."

"You do know that some people believe suicide leads to eternal damnation. What if you don't go to heaven to be with Ash, Buffy?"

Angrily, she remarked, "well, god... or whoever, whatever sort of gave me the shaft when it came to my life, so I'm thinking that he/she/it owes me one."

"Things don't work that way."

"Yeah, well, you were willing to risk suicide before I stopped you," she challenged. "Why should I be any different?"

Ignoring her question, he focused upon the topic of the past. "Exactly, you stopped me, and, now, I'm here to stop you."

"Well, it only took you twenty minutes, but you finally got around to your point, huh? Look, Angel. I already told you. You can't stop me."

"And don't you think that I felt the same way six years ago?"

Still willing to fight for him but not for herself, she took a step in his direction. "But you had a reason to live. You had a purpose."

"No, Buffy," he argued with her. "I had you."

When she turned away from him and lifted the knife back up to her throat, he knew that he had said the wrong thing. Quietly, she asked, "yeah, well, who do I have? Nobody needs me, Angel."

"Are you kidding?" This time, it was his turn to take a step closer to her. "Everybody needs you. The world needs you."

"I'm not talking about my calling. All those years ago, I needed you for me. Nobody needs me like that, not anymore. Not since Ash died."

"What about...," he started only for Buffy to interrupt him.

"Who? Giles? He'll find a new slayer to teach, to love. Willow? She's never needed me. She just hasn't realized that yet. As for Xander, his life will be much better off and safer without me constantly dragging him into my problems."

"I was going to say what about me."

Breathlessly, she responded, "oh," turning around once more. Slowly, as though the muscles in her arm were gradually becoming too tired to hold the knife up any longer, her hand fell to rest against her side, the shining metal of the blade parallel to her jeans.

"I need you, Buffy."

"Because of Ash? Because I'm the last piece of her that you have left?"

"Do I want you in my life because you're the mother of my child? Yes," he answered honestly, "but that's not why I need you or, at least, not the only reason why. I could ask your friends to tell me about our daughter, and they would. Willow's already given me several boxes of pictures and a copy of Ash's baby book to read. But you're more than just Ashlinn's mother to me, Buffy."

"I'm also the slayer," she said softly. "Is that why you need me – to help you fight evil?"

"Well, you on my side certainly wouldn't hurt my chances of winning, but, no, that's not why." Although she didn't say anything, he could see the prompting in her tear-filled gaze. She wanted to know what exactly he meant by coming up on the hill and declaring that he needed her in his life. "Years ago, when I first saw you being called, you gave me a purpose, Buffy, or, at least, you showed me what my purpose could be, should be. I've needed you ever since.

"If nothing else, the most important thing that you've taught me throughout the various aspects of our relationship is how important it is to have someone in your life that you love. It's the most necessary thing for survival, I think. Without having that one person, winning wouldn't matter. Ridding the world of evil wouldn't matter, because who would I be ridding the evil for? And a purpose would be empty if I didn't have someone to share it with – not the burden of it but the joy of achievement."

Pausing momentarily to take a deep breath, Angel willed his own tears away. Buffy was crying, but he wanted to say everything that was in his heart before he succumbed to the emotions swirling between them. "For a little while, yes, I had our daughter to love. Loving her, protecting her was my reason for living; I needed her. But, all those years ago - before she existed, it wasn't Ash that willed me to live – that dragged me out of the dank, dark alleys, that saved me from meeting the sun on this very hill; that was you. It doesn't matter how angry you make me or how much we hurt each other, I will always love you, Buffy. You're that one person in my life. To me, you are what is necessary."

"But," she went to protest. Before she could say more, though, he held up a hand, stopping her.

"I know what you're going to say, and you're right. I left you. For years, I've pushed you away, but that distance was physical only. Never once did I stop loving you. Never once did I stop needing you. Never once did I stop wanting you. But what I realize now is that, for you, the distance between us was more than just physical. Knowing that I love you one hundred miles away isn't enough. You need to feel me loving you, see me loving you every day... even if it's only in a smile." Finally closing the distance between them, he uncurled her fingers from around the knife, allowing it to drop silently onto the grass, and then curled his own hand around her slender digits. "Or by holding hands."

Insightfully, he added, "and I don't think I could be one hundred miles from you any longer now. It's not because I need you to remember Ash either; it's because, for the past few months – even when we were so far apart emotionally, I haven't been alone. No matter what our flaws, we were a family. We _are _a family, and I'm too selfish to push you away again. While I may not have our daughter any longer, I still have you, and you'll always be more than enough for me, Buffy. I know it's different for you, though, because Ashlinn was your entire life for almost five years, but, because she's gone now, I think you need me, too."

"You stupid, frustrating... guy!" Glaring at him, she ripped her hand from his grip and used both of her palms to press against and push him staggering away. The touch didn't hurt, though. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that the mere feel of her had the power in that moment to shock his heart. "I've always needed you – before Ash, during Ash, and especially now after Ash. Don't you get it? I love you, too, you big blockhead. Forever, remember? That's the whole point."

He wanted to kiss her, hug her, hold her, finally let go of himself and his tight rein upon his emotions and cry upon her shoulder, but, before he could even smile in acknowledgement of her declaration, Angel collapsed. The pain that suddenly eclipsed his entire body was intense beyond comprehension, obliterating all thought capabilities from his mind, but, at the same time, the pain was also familiar and reassuring."

Distantly aware, he gazed upon Buffy's face as she fell to the ground with him, her hair immediately cascading forward to form an aromatic and shielding curtain around them. She was still crying, but her tears had changed. No longer spurred on by grief, they rank of fear and desperation – fear and desperation for him. He wanted to taste them, drown himself in their potency.

"What, Angel...? I don't... I don't know what's happening, what's going on. I don't understand," Buffy wept, choking on her own futility. Panicked, her hands ran over his chest, his arms, up and around his neck which she then cradled tenderly in an attempt to keep him still. "Tell me what hurts," she finally instructed him.

"Ev... every... thing." His voice was so hoarse, so low it was a miracle in and of itself that she was able to hear him.

"That's not very helpful," she yelled, her fear turning into irrational rage. "How am I supposed to do anything for you if I don't know what's wrong?"

As the pain was gradually starting to weaken and lose its grip upon him, Angel responded, "I feel... hot."

"Well, you are rather flushed, and you feel warm – not as warm as you did when Faith shot you with that poisoned arrow but warmer than any vampire I've ever touched before."

He wanted to growl at the thought of her touching any other vampire but him but knew that such territorial, alpha-male behavior wouldn't improve their situation at all. It might make _him_feel slightly better, though. Pushing his jealousy aside, Angel added, "I feel like I... need to breathe, but that's... ridiculous."

"Why," Buffy questioned, distracted by her concern and still checking over his body like an emergency room nurse. "You breathe for me all the time."

"That's because I want... to feel... as normal for you... as I possibly can, not because I have to."

Again, she cursed him. "Stupid, frustrating guy. I don't care about that."

Ignoring her, he said, "and my chest, it feels... tight."

"If you say that your left arm hurts next, I'm going to hit you. Vampires can't have heart attacks." As if her own words were the last catalyst needed to make her see clearly, Buffy's eyes widened in shock, and then she dropped her head towards his chest, cocking her ear to the side and pressing it against him. "Holy Mother of Deja-Vu. Your heart's beating. Angel, did you just... Shanshu?"

Sitting up slowly, he kept her close to him – kneeling between his bent legs with his arms wrapped around her. "Could there be any other explanation?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't make any sense. From what you told me, Wes said that you'd only become human after you saved the world from the End of Days. While I'm grateful, all you did tonight was talk down one suicidal slayer."

"A slayer who has saved the world herself a few times already," he pointed out. "Maybe your death would have meant the End of Days. Have you ever thought of that? Faith or no Faith, you are the slayer – the most successful one in history. No one would have been able to replace you, and it's likely that, without you, I would have stopped fighting or died myself."

"No pressure there," Buffy managed a small joke.

Keeping the moment's levity going, Angel added, "besides, Wesley isn't always the most accurate of translators when it comes to prophecies. He could have made a mistake... or twenty."

"Now you tell me," she grumbled, sliding further into his embrace and wrapping her own arms around him. Seconds later, she sighed. "So, you're alive now, huh?"

Though neither of them said the words, he knew they were both thinking the same thing. He was now alive, but their daughter was still dead.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty: I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You**

Angel felt like a teenager again... or, more accurately, he felt as though Buffy were a teenager again. If he were ever to regress to that confusing, tumultuous time in his life again, Angel feared that the world would be doomed. Buffy's high school years were safe enough, though. In fact, it had been when she was a teenager that he had been the happiest in his long and complicated existence.

A little too happy at one point.

That was precisely why they were sneaking into her house, making him recall the earlier aspects of their relationship, although Angel feared that getting caught by Giles and Xander would have much greater consequences. Joyce might have been protective of her daughter like any loving mother, but she had not been aware of the true extent of Angel's relationship with Buffy; Giles and Xander were. Granted, that night had changed everything for them, but he wasn't sure either man would give him enough time to explain before planting a crossbow bolt in his chest. Luckily, such methods would no longer turn him to ash immediately; unfortunately, the suffering he would experience because of a lingering death would probably make him yearn for his old supernatural weaknesses.

However, they had timed their return to the house well. All was quiet. After remaining on the hill for hours, simply sitting and then laying in each other's arms – watching the night sky deepen first and then begin to ripen with the dawn, Buffy had suggested that they leave. He had wanted to stay to watch the sunrise, but she assured him that they would have plenty of other mornings to indulge his desires. For that morning, at least, she preferred making it back home before anyone else woke up – hence, their sneaking.

Despite the early morning hour, the house was still festively illuminated. The candles still burned in the windows, and Willow had left the fully decorated tree plugged in. It cast a delicate, warm glow throughout the entire living room, making the home especially welcoming. The air still smelled of holiday baked goods, too, but, thankfully, the Chipmunk singing... or so Buffy told him... was silent. Before he spent another Christmas as a human, he was determined to find all of Xander's CD's and destroy them.

His thoughts were pulled away from his surroundings, though, when Buffy grasped his hand and quietly led him upstairs, trailing obediently behind her. Neither of them spoke, but their minds were still in sync. Without consulting the other, they both knew that, for just a few hours, they wanted to savor his newly granted humanity alone, to feel as close to one another as a man and woman possibly could. It had been years since they had been so intimate, and Angel found the prospect both thrilling and slightly terrifying.

However, any anticipation he felt was doused upon entering Buffy's room, and the temporary distraction of seeing things through a human perspective once more disappeared as soon as he saw Ashlinn's things boxed and piled up in the corner. The boxes weren't sealed yet, though, and some of their contents overflowed down the sides. As if drawn by instinct, he and Buffy both moved closer. Absently, he lifted his free hand to touch the nearest thing – a blanket, obviously well worn and well loved. His index finger barely grazed the soft material before he quickly drew his digit back as if burned.

"I don't know what to do with it," Buffy confessed on a whisper. "Every time I see her things, it's like she dies all over again, because she's not here to play with her toys or wear her clothes, but, at the same time, every time I go to finish packing it up so I can move it away, it feels like I'm trying to forget her."

"You know that's not true, Buffy."

She laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, I know, but try explaining rationality to a grieving mind."

"I have," he murmured. "It's impossible."

"Plus, even if I did move it, I don't where it should go." She sighed then continued. "A part of me wants to hold onto it for forever, locked away in some closet so that someday I can pull it out again and touch her things. It won't be the same as holding her, but..."

"It's the closest we'll have until... for a long time," Angel finished, barely swallowing past his words.

"Then there's another part of me that thinks I should donate it to charity. Whether I want it or not, there are other kids out there who _need _it. Ash wouldn't want me to deprive them because of my own selfishness."

"No, she wouldn't," he agreed with her, "but I think she'd also want her mom to be healthy and happy again someday, too. You have time, Buffy," he told her compassionately. "_We _have time."

Accepting his comments and saying nothing further, Buffy turned and tugged on his hand that was still joined with hers, leading him to her bed. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, she sat down gracelessly, the bed giving disagreeably under her slight weight with a creak of its springs. She waited for him to sit beside her before kicking off her shoes and scooting backwards, eventually coming to a rest when they were both leaning against her headboard, their legs stretched out before them, their shoulders side by side but not touching. However, they didn't remain apart for long.

Almost immediately, Buffy curled onto her side and molded her body against his, insinuating herself under his arm and into his embrace. In reassurance, he moved his far arm across his chest to wrap it, too, around her. And then they rested there, silently - both of them lost in their own tumultuous thoughts. While he wondered about the future and what his humanity would mean for both their relationship and his agency, while he somehow tried to seek a balance between the exhilaration of real, actual life and the devastation of his daughter's loss, and while he attempted and failed to ignore just how pleasant it felt to hold Buffy in his arms once more, he also remained curious as to where her own thoughts were, but he didn't ask. It wasn't that he didn't want to intrude upon her privacy; rather, he simply wasn't sure he'd be able to express his own mindset, so how could he expect her to be able to do so when he could not?

Finally, though, sensation pushed aside everything else, and he became aware of the fact that Buffy was no longer still in his embrace. At some point, she had slipped free the top several buttons of his shirt and now, almost absently, sat whispering the pads of her silken fingers over his chest, over the skin which covered and sheltered his now fragile, beating heart. However absent the caress felt, though, he knew it also contained a depth of invitation. After all, one didn't exist for over two hundred and fifty years without learning at least a thing or two about women.

Even one as baffling and wonderfully unique as Buffy.

Lifting her hand to his mouth, he tenderly kissed the tips of her fingers, momentarily shocked to find them warm from the touch of him instead of chilled. "It took you long enough," Buffy chided, but he could hear the teasing note to her voice and the smile that tugged upon her full, pink lips.

"Yeah, well, I have a few things on my mind."

"Hm," she remarked casually as she surprised him further by sitting up, swinging a leg across his torso, and settling so that she was straddling him. "We'll see." However, the joy and anticipation he could see clearly marked across her face diffused rapidly when she lowered herself to fit snuggly against him, feeling the full impact of his arousal towards her. Fear replaced the elation, and Buffy scrambled up and off of him before he could even lift his hands to hold her still or offer a word of reassurance.

"Are you... what's wrong," he asked worriedly, sitting up on his elbows and angling his body to the side to face her.

Already turning to flee, she murmured, "I'll be right back."

He struggled with himself for several tense moments, questioning whether he should in fact wait for her to return or run after her. While he wanted to show Buffy that he trusted and supported her, he also knew that, because of their past, she was insecure when it came to their relationship and might take his unwillingness to chase after her as proof that he wasn't going to stay as he had promised. Before he could decide, though, she did come back, just as she said she would.

Wordlessly, she tossed something onto her bedside table and waited for his gaze to take it in before explaining. It was a box of condoms. "I never want to have another child."

Staggered by her words, it felt as though he had been punched in the chest, and it suddenly hurt to breathe. Sitting up further, he moved once more so that he was poised upon the edge of her bed. She sat down beside him, fiddling with her fingers in an anxious manner for one long minute, and then two, and then three while he thought.

While he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Buffy had loved – still loved – their daughter more than anything else in the world and that she could never regret her, her comment made him wonder if she regretted that he was Ash's father. Realistically, he knew that Ash wouldn't have been Ash if anyone else would have been her dad, but, still, how else was he supposed to take such a definitive statement? Their little girl had been the most important person in Buffy's life, and they had finally been given a chance to have a normal, healthy relationship, but she refused to even consider having another child together someday.

He was grateful when she broke the silence, choosing to explain herself before he could say something stupid he'd later regret or walk away from. "I loved Ash so much, Angel, and I always will, and I'll never regret the time I had with her. No matter how short, I'll always cherish her life, but, at the same time, I know that I can't go through that again – loving and losing a child to tay-sachs. If we were to have another child... I'm sorry, but the risk is too great. I just... can't. But if you don't feel the same way, if you're willing to risk having another child born with the disease, then you need to tell me now. I mean, I'll understand, and we'll just end this thing before it can even..."

Interrupting her rudely, Angel grasped Buffy by the shoulders and twisted her around to face him. "I don't want to watch another child of ours die, I'd never ask you to go through such pain again for me, Buffy, and don't you even think for a second that I'm willing to be the father of someone else's child. But, if you'd ever want to be a mother again someday, I'd like to be a dad again."

"How... but I don't...?" Struggling to form her thoughts into words, Buffy finally settled for an inelegant, "huh?"

"There are more ways than just the old-fashioned way to have a baby. We could adopt."

"Adopt?"

"In a few years," he added. "Or whenever you're ready – _we're _ready."

Her tone lost much of its skepticism. "Adopt."

"I don't know about you, but, because of the work that we do, I've seen so many abandoned and unwanted kids over the years who need good homes. Someday, we could be one of those good homes." Hesitantly – not because he was afraid of offending her and not because he doubted her answer but because their relationship was so new and everything was happening so fast, Angel asked, "do you think that you could love a child that wasn't ours biologically as much as you...?"

Cutting him off, Buffy was quick to respond, "yes. Without question, yes, but not right away. I couldn't..."

"Me either," he assured her. "Besides," Angel added, "I'd like to have some time for just the two of us first. We have picnics to take, dates to enjoy, crunchy peanut-butter with chocolate and cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip ice cream to eat."

"And lots and lots of guilt-free, soul-keeping sex to have. Don't forget the sex."

"Trust me," he teased, pushing her back and then rolling over to hang over her on his hands and knees. "I'm not going to forget about the sex. But first..." With that, he stood up and moved across the room, pulling up the blinds and opening the curtains so that the new light of the morning could shine in upon them. Turning back around and walking towards her, he explained his sudden actions. "I want to make love to you in the sunlight."

As their clothes melted away, Angel realized that their languid, rapturous joining wasn't just about seizing the moment, or celebrating his reward of humanity, or consoling each other's grief. It was all of those things and more, but most especially it was a declaration of love and life. Sliding down Buffy's body, Angel paused momentarily to kiss her lower abdomen, allowing his lips to rest over the skin that had once stretched taunt to hold and protect their unborn child, a sensation they'd never experience again. But that was alright. Taking a deep breath and smiling so that she could feel his exhilaration move against and through her, he moved his body forward, realigned his form to match her own, and then entered her smoothly.

He was alive, but their daughter was dead.

Life was bittersweet.


End file.
